


Accidental Meddler

by PurpleBilli



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Author really likes fight scenes, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, elements of angst, time skip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22128094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleBilli/pseuds/PurpleBilli
Summary: Mal was suppose to die. It was all a planned hunt, and carried out to perfection. Yet her life didn't end, for reasons nobody understands. So she continues to live a wonderful peaceful life. That is, until she gets herself involved with the events of the Inquisition, starting with the explosion."One has to wonder…," the slow drawn out words create enough time for Mal to close her eyes, sigh, and wait a bitter sweet moment for the disaster that she is sure is going to gush from Solas's mouth. "what does a warrior with your calibre gain by farming? Surely there are better ways to occupy your time than tending to animals and ploughing fields."The nerve of this bastard.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast - mentioned, Solas (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 92





	1. Prologue

Between the thick trees and bushes it would be almost impossible to spot the dark hollowed stone if one didn't know where to look. 

But Mal and her companion has been here before. It's a familiar cave in the midst of a huge forest, and once again they huddle inside. The wet drops from their bodies soaks the dirt floor. The rain outside is heavy and thick, but also warm enough to prevent Mal from feeling cold.

The forest thrives in the rain. Mal can almost not recognise her old forest. The impossibly thick branches and vines is brimming with life with the way they cascade upwards as if to reach the precious drops just a little bit sooner. The green and brown has almost replaced the darkening sky with the forest coming to life. Yet, the colours start to darken with the fast approaching twilight, as the red and orange light in the sky gives the heavy raindrops a glowing shimmer.

It's beautiful. 

However, being here is not about beauty. Mal knows that soon the shallow cave will turn completely dark. The sun will disappear behind the horizon, and the light of the full moon won't be able to penetrate the thick blanket of lush forest. For despite the rain, it is the need for hiding that is the main purpose of Mal and Samhal huddling together with the shelter of stone and dirt around them. 

Mal looks at her companion. Her sharp eyes utilizing the last bit of light before it disappears. 

She sees his dark unkempt hair framing his face, hard at work of keeping the wet drops of water from running down his forehead. A line of raised skin runs from his hairline and down almost vertically across his closed eye and doesn't stop until it reach his jaw. The scar is deep. It's made even more prominent by the way it breaks and skews the dark intricate lines that covers his face. A full drawing that Mal knows reflects the state of her own face.

"We'll stay for the night. Hopefully the rain has abated by then." Samhal's deep voice fills the smaller cave. A carefree hand comes up to rub the water out of his pointy ears. It's his habit. He claims the ears dry out and flake if he doesn't care for them, though Mal has never seen them flake despite the numerous times he's been too busy running away to dry them properly. 

Samhal notices her stare and gives her a wry smile. 

To Mal, the look she gets convey his thoughts as if they were printed on his forehead. She has had a wealth of time interpreting these glances, though her stomach still persist with its fluttering. It's almost embarrassing, if it wasn't so wonderful.

Moving closer along the dusty ground. Her hand brush Samhal's as she reach for his ears, stroking the bridge of them up and down, replacing his own movements earlier.

His deep groan comes at the exact moment she knew it would. 

They have the night to themselves. A comfort they have not afforded for some time, as they've fled, hid, and prayed for luck to keep them from being found. It's not until today that they've both felt secure in the knowledge of their hunters resting. They both knew they would get their break from the pursuit at some point, but the relief that it's here is immense nonetheless.

Samhal curls his arm around Mal's waist. Shifting until his body is pressing along hers. He's strong, and to Mal, he means her safety. 

He brings his face against her hair that's been darkened by water. A soft smile plays on his lips. He keeps still for a long time, while stroking Mal's hair with a lazy and comforting hand. 

Right now it's all that Mal needs. His pure comfort soothes her body to rest, just like a lullaby without music or words. She takes his hand in hers, twisting their fingers together. Finding soothing joy in this stolen moment for them both.

Leaning down again Samhal puts his mouth against Mal's ear. The hot breath tingles her skin. He whispers in a low voice that should have made Mal smile, if it weren't for the content of the words. 

"We should cross the plains tomorrow. Meet up with the others." Mal can't stop the tension rising in her weary body. Tension Samhal must have tried to prod out of her before having this conversation. 

Her soft smile is quickly replaced with a stern line. She knows that the plains leaves little cover should their hunter manage to track them. They will have to move as fast as their legs can carry them across the traitorous landscape, and even then it's a risk. 

Though if they want to take the chance on the plains Mal knows that there is no better time than now.

"Do you think it's really necessary?" she whispers, trying to keep the calm in her voice. Samhal knows her so well, she knows that she's most likely failing. But that doesn’t stop her from trying. 

She feels Samhal tightening his grip in an attempt at comfort, which is as much of an answer to her question as she needs. They have to go.

Mal knows that meeting with the rest of the clan across the plains would be best. After all, the chance of surviving is greater in a larger group, as lone pray has little to offer in resistance should they be found. The problem is that in a bigger group they attract more hunters. Attacks are more frequent, and coordination's and tactics they have to face is far more developed. In almost every attack there is a sacrifice.

Mal has seen many die due to her enemies planned chaos that erupts suddenly and without warning.

"I'll keep you safe." Samhal rumbles, and Mal can feel the vibrations in his chest against her back. It feels pleasant, as he knows it is. She hadn't expected them to be able to stay together for this long, but now that they have she is immensely glad. Her trust in him providing her drops of joy while she's on a constant run.

She also knows of Samhal's special abilities.

He has managed to tap into the magic that is embedded in the world. A magic that flows in a steady constant through nature, people, and animals alike. Mal has always been able to feel the energy. It's there, a part of her just out of her reach.

Mal was there when Samhal spent immeasurable time feeling the pulse running through himself. Trying, and mostly failing, at leading the energy in the direction of his will. She was there when a huge grin appeared on his face, the only warning she had before she felt the energy shift. Subdued to his imagination.

As a result, his speed is now unmatched amongst his peers. And while his speed is invaluable for him as he needs to run during the hunt, it also opens up the use of tactics. With the right strategy he can change the course of the hunt to his own advantage.

Samhal starts stroking her hair again. His hand moving down from her shoulder to her back and waist. It's soothing and warm. The hand manages to pry the worried thoughts out of her mind until she falls asleep in his arms.

\--------------

Mal wakes up suddenly. Eyes opens with alarm, though her senses tells her that nothing has changed in the shallow cave. The sound of rain is a constant drum, while the pressure of Samhal's arms is the same, softly changing with the timing of his breath. 

Yet she knows that someone is outside. Feels it as if the presence was right before her eyes as her nerves are screaming at her of danger. It's a feeling that has saved her numerous times, and she's not about to ignore her instincts now.

Keeping still she tries to reach out with her senses. Feel for anything that can give her a warning of what is outside. She hopes that it's just a dangerous animal, and that by keeping still it will pass without noticing their cave.

Her eyes aren't much use in the dark, but with her ears she tries to hear something through the thundering rain. Samhal then turns unnaturally still. His breathing quiets to barely a whisp of air, not a sound coming out even to Mal's own ears. He slowly lifts his hand. Mal starts to feel careful circles on her arm. The touch is soft and deliberate, and before he is done Mal knows their meaning.

The hunt is here. The priests are out for their blood.

She has seen it many times as others have been caught. The desperate plea in the victims, ebbing out into nothing as life leaves their bodies with a sharp glow of their vallaslin. It's her own fate if she lets herself get caught, but she won't let that happen. She doesn't want to die.

Keeping still she prays. Silent words running through her mind for luck to turn to her and not the priests outside. The cave is hidden. It's the sole reason they chose it, yet the priests are skilled. Living their entire lives for the single purpose of catching their targets, Mal knows that all it takes is a shift of the leaves with the wind, a parting of the clouds at the right moment when the priests look their way, and the shallow cave will be revealed. 

She doesn't dare move, but it doesn't matter.

The hit is sudden. One moment in complete stillness, and the next spent in horror. 

Mal feels Samhal twist to the side as a force crash down where his head used to be, a mere fingerbreadth away from Mal. A foot kicks her hard and painful, and she is flying out into the dark green forest. Not a moment is given for her to react to the impact. The landing is rough as branches slice into her skin, but panic prevents her from feeling pain. 

"Run!" 

The cry from Samhal reach her ears right before the all too familiar sound of metal piercing skin. Between the green leaves she sees a glow of light from the cave. A light that can only come from the vallaslin of a dying slave. A sharp shimmer illuminates the horrifying forms of hunters looking down at their pray in religious satisfaction. 

Then the light disappears impossibly fast. Nothing is left but dark hues in the thick forest.

Yet there is no time to think. No time to let the impressions and implications sink into her shallow form as her instinct to run kicks in full force. Stumbling up she lets her legs carry her forward, away from the former safety of the cave.

The sound of her heart pounding shuts out the forest as she moves forward as fast as she can. Legs beating quickly down upon the unyielding bushes and roots, though she fears it's not fast enough. She sees a soft light shimmer from above her head. A green glow too bright to come from vegetation and too high up to come from her pursuers. The light makes it possible to see where she can place her feet on the roots and branches, helping her move faster through the thick forest. 

Then she feels a sharp rupture. Like her whole chest is split apart at the seams, flesh and bones with it. 

The pounding of her heart that was prominent in her ears stop, and looking down she sees a soft green light on the metal poking through her chest. Then the light grows sharper. It dances on the sword, with vivid plays of light and movement. The spectacle seems otherworldly. A beautiful play of lighting for her view alone.

Then the ever constant thrum in her body stops. Her magic, the power she has never been able to utilize, is ripped away from her core. 

At the same time, the green light in the sky grows impossibly bright. The forest around her sags as if all life has been ripped out of it in an instant, just like what happened to Mal's own body. 

Her killer, the priest and hunter that now finally made reality of her nightmares screams in agony behind her. The last thought Mal has before oblivion takes her is that the God of Revenge must have finally heard her call. 

At least she'll drag her killers with her into the void.


	2. Chapter 2

The memory of her first death plays across Mal's mind as she travels through a steep forest. It was the appearance of the veil cutting off magic from Thedas that saved her life that day. 

A freak accident. 

Forever closing the opportunity for her to die and find the afterlife. None of the priests nor Samhal survived like her, nor has she found anyone else sharing her fate. Whatever happened, she's been wandering Thedas ever since. 

Still, despite her dreary thoughts it's a bright day. Seemingly as far away from a dark night filled with pouring rain as possible. 

Trying to shake the thoughts away from her mind Mal notices the pleasing scenery around her. Like the shining sunrays glistening on the water drops still clinging to the green leaves from the morning mist. Or the glimpse of the beautiful blue sky through the thinning treetops. 

It's cold, as it always is in these parts of the world. Even the trees seem to huddle together as they make way for the road, just wide enough for her cart to pass through without too much trouble. 

She doesn't know why her mind draws on the memory of her life altering accident, as little in her current situation resembles that night. Sure, she is running, but not from ruthless pursuers. There are no priests and no ritual. No deep rooted fear clinging to the core of her body. She's not even marked by Andruil's vallaslin, and for that she is immensely glad. 

Her current companion sitting next to her doesn't resemble Samhal at all. She has light skin and bright red hair. It's tousled with the barest hint of grey, though those hairs only serves to make it even brighter than it used to be. Now, the stray sunrays finding their way through the blanket of leaves makes Effie look almost etheral.

Effie's the one holding the rains of their old ox. He's a trusted companion for the many years he's worked diligently at their farm, and only occasionally has he kicked his masters when he thinks they're being unreasonable. And so far Mal can say that he's always been right with his infrequent complaints.

Now he's pulling at their cart without protest. The hooves on the dirt road and his laboured breath is the only sounds coming from the large animal, though Mal knows he must be getting tired. It's like he understands both his masters plight.

A few days ago the fighting skirmishes between Templars and mages started for real in the Hinterlands. They had heard of the brewing troubles, yet the way it hit their land was sudden and unexpected. Quickly they had to leave. The only thing they could do in the face of war and bloodied conflict.

Their cart, filled haphazardly with whatever supplies they both could get their hands on in a short amount of time, is the only thing left from their previous lives.

A few unnoticed glances at Effie makes it obvious to Mal that her friend takes the loss of her home hard. Effie would not dream of intentionally showing Mal her pain at leaving, but a long friendship has taught Mal when and where to look. 

And she feels powerless to help. 

She knows from experience that the pain will dull with time, but that knowledge isn't giving Effie any comfort. The pain is still too raw. She tries to distract Effie with mindless prattle, but with limited effect. 

All Mal can do is to be there. Playing along with Effie's act of being unaffected until someday it's no longer a front. 

The rains in Effie's hand are slack. There's no need to pull at them as the ox already knows to follow the road up the slow climb of the mountain. Effie turns her sharp gaze and sees Mal slouched down in her seat. With her legs wide and propped up on the support frame, and arms crossed in front of her chest, Mal looks every bit like a delinquent teenager up to no good.

"Have you memorized the chant?" the words cuts across the cold air. It's almost like Effie sucked the life out the pleasant morning with the sole use of words. It's an uncanny ability, Mal thinks.

Mal really hates the bloody chant.

When Mal doesn't answer Effie sighs, giving a slight shake of her bushy head. "Not knowing the chant is too suspicious." 

The worst part is that Mal does know this, but that only adds to the cringe she feels at having to read and memorize the damned words.

"Add the fact that you're an apostate mage, and they'll cut off your head on the spot. You know, it's alright if you want to run. I can go by myself." Effie adds, but Mal shakes her head even before Effie finishes the sentence. While Mal's magic puts her in serious risk of decapitation by a prejudiced mob, she won't leave Effie alone. People are too frail, and Effie is definitely no exception.

They're currently on their way to Haven. 

The temporary centre of chantry operations with all of the power structures and delegates present. Mal decided long ago that she would avoid everything involving the capital religion in Thedas, distrusting and disliking everything involving worship of higher powers. 

The problem is that she hadn't foreseen the current need to seek safety within their midst. The safest place to be right now with the chaos wreaking havoc on the land, is right at the ridiculously religious divines side. 

Mal will be damned before she lets her own principles stay in the way of Effies safety. 

So off they go. Goading the willing ox along the narrow road up to Haven. The result of Mal's previous inhibitions is unfortunate, as the first time she opened a book of prayer were just a few days ago. Effie thrust it in her hands as one of the last things she saved from their former home before they were forced to flee. 

She has tried to learn. Reading the passages over and over again. Muttering the words under her breath in hopes that it will help her remember, but the more she reads the angrier she gets. Talk of salvation against evil, promises of a good life after death in return for devotion, it's brainwashing. All of it. A leach on free will derived from fear of an unknown retribution.

So Mal had given up. At least for today, though Effie doesn't seem to agree with that decision.

"Maa, elves don't know the chant as well as humans. According to Andraste we're idiots that's not worthy of their deity. It's only fair that I'll get away with a little bit of ignorance." the argument is fleeting. Playing into the act of a defiant and moody elf for the sake of arguing, and not to make a valid point. Mal is not fooling anyone. Though that is hardly the goal of her banter.

"But you're not an elf." Effie counters in an entirely serious tone. She keeps her eyes on the road, not bothering at all to look at Mal's sudden confusion.

"The only thing that could explain your use of broken logic is if your father mated with an untamed mabari. It covers everything, from your shitty temper to your pointy ears." 

Cussing under her breath Mal reach down, her fingers searching beneath her seat. Gripping her hated book she pulls it out while doing her best at giving her uncaring and seemingly oblivious friend a glare promising revenge.

Looking down at the gold covered pages and freaky eye, she shudders. Opening the book to a random page, she looks at the familiar passage it offers and smiles. It's not a pleasant smile, oh no. The neighbourhood farm lads always dreaded becoming Mal's next target for what she calls _teachings in the consequences of imbalanced powers between people._ A lesson that has Mal branded as non-maternal to all her neighbours.

"Blessed be thy Maker, and save me from my temptation." Mal starts in an almost monotone voice. She's not quite able to hide the glee bubbling inside her body at a chance of payback. "Give me the grace to clean the foul stench seeping into the fray, led by the words coming from my mouth." 

Though at Mal's reading, Effie doesn't even look mildly insulted.

"You should be able to remember that one, at the very least. Though I'm not sure that's exactly how it goes." And it's not. Mal changed the end a little to make her point, even though the reaction from Effie wasn't what she had hoped for. Looking through her borrowed book she searches for a better chant, trying to remember one that will finally hit the nail on the head in terms of Effie's sins. 

A sudden thought runs through her head while she's reading. At least friendly banter is a slightly more fun way of learning the damned chant, and hopefully a little effort from Mal will serve in keeping Effie from her dismal thoughts of home.

\------------- 

Haven is as Mal predicted. 

She has never been here before, but villages are usually alike, and Haven is no exception. That much is obvious as soon as the small town reveals itself past the thinning trees. The village looks like it's cradled comfortably between mountain rock and forest in a snow covered landscape. Though the mass of activity in front of the gates is a sharp break with the image of what would probably have been a peaceful and slow existence. 

From the rumours of the great conclave trying to mitigate peace between the fighting forces of Templars and mages, Mal had expected a crowd. Watching the mingle of men and women in front of the primitive village gate and walls, she's not disappointed. 

There are mercenaries and dwarfs. Merchants and traders, and a great deal of priests of seemingly different stature. All, except the spread out soldiers keeping guard, walks with purpose in their strides and shoulders held high with tension. A mass of faces are drawn to their own thoughts, undoubtedly racing in the lines with their agenda at being here. 

Each one of them knows that the fate of Thedas will be decided with the outcome of this conclave. There is no questioning that fact. 

That also means that every half intelligent dimwit on two legs and a prospect of a wealthy future has realized their need to be here. Undoubtedly they'll use every means at their disposal to affect the outcome in their own favour. Pulling and pushing at every ounce of their ability for every opportunity.

Mal had even expected some of the reclusive dalish to show up given their desperate need for improvements in their political lives. 

She can't see any of them though, and can't help feeling relieved. Not that avoiding them is difficult. They usually don't mingle with others, elf or not. No, it's just better to not have a chance of bumping into them at all. 

Effie only started criticising Mal for her temper after they met with a trading dalish clan settling in Ferelden a few years back, and Mal has had to concede to her friends argument. It's hard to be rational in the face of those marked elves. 

From what Effie has told Mal the current divine is a woman of kindness. Often enough her ability to act has been dulled from her very own grace of mercy and hesitation. The trusting divine, Effie said. A woman hoping that kind words backed with good intentions are enough to placate her subjects for peace. 

Mal thinks that the situation of bloody war within her own organisation is proof enough of her inefficiency. No matter her intentions the current result is a battle fuelled by hate, and every day civilians are the ones catching the brunt of that destruction. 

When asking Effie about it Mal just receives a shrug. The gesture is genuine, and Mal can't understand why. After all, Effie's been betrayed having lost everything to the inefficiency of the divine whom is supposed to want her best. Instead, she just chastise Mal for being too angry.

Maybe she's right. Perhaps the call for the conclave is a sign that the divine has learned. Hesitation and inaction is no longer an option if she wants to appease the desperate call for peace. 

Effie stops the cart outside the stables. The small barely roofed hut is overcrowded with mounts already, which is to be expected from a small town housing too many people however temporarily. 

The two women agreed that they'll sell off their goods and ox, though Mal has no doubt that it's a heavy blow for Effie. The last bit of confirmation that she has lost next to everything in her life. But there is no way they'll be able to keep their trusted ox. They're currently homeless, and as such has a need for work and housing. Not farm animals. 

"You know, I'm sure I could get away with impersonating a sister." Mal throws out the sudden comment while they're packing out the cart. They brought a small shipment of beer from the local brewery that was loaded but never had the opportunity to leave for its intended destination. Selling it for a fair price should be easy.

Effie looks up at Mal. The dim light behind the cart curtains are not doing anything to hide the older woman's annoyance. A hard line appears in the wrinkle between her eyes as she contemplates her friend's words. "Those jokes are in poor taste. In this company you'll be hanged for heresy for uttering that, even if you don't mean it." the dry retort is meant to reprimand her, Mal knows. But she just waves it off with a glint in her dark eyes. Not worried in the least.

"I look good in red. And a literal holier-than-thou attitude practically shines like a beacon should I conjure it. I'll fit right in." A small crack of a smile breaks from Effie's lips, just as Mal had hoped. 

"I learned the chant already. And I'm sure there's enough replacement garbs in the divines wardrobe in case she-" the joke is cut short. 

Mal's eyes widen as she stares at the naturally pale face in front of her. Except that it's not just white anymore. A hint of green flickers along the sharp jaw, creating a stark contrast with the light hairline. It's a colour she acutely remembers. Yet, it's one that she has not seen in a very long time.

The colour comes from the outside. It's filtered through the white canvas, and as soon as Mal's mind catch up to this she bolts. Her boots have barely touched the grey snow before she looks up and into the sky in search for the familiar light. The only place she knows it would appear. 

What she finds is the Fade itself staring back at her. As if it's ripped a hole in the fabric of blue sky to make room for itself. Like a desperate attempt to pass through the sky to reach the earth, not caring what it destroys in its path.

A vortex of pure power angrily assaulting the earth ruptures from the green hole. All the way from the sky until it disappears beyond the treetops up at the mountain side. It's huge and has the same shade she sees in her memories and dreams of her past. 

Bolts of green fire shoots out of the rupture, as if the Fade itself is seeking revenge on being separated from the world for such a long stretch of time. 

"Effie!" Mal screams in panic as soon as she gets her bearing. The red and grey hair sticks out from the canvas, eyes startled and scared. Not scared enough Mal thinks fleetingly. 

"We need to get out of here." but as soon as the desperate words leave her mouth there is a deafening sound. An after effect of what must have been a huge explosion ripples across Haven, levelling people with a powerful shockwave. Mal falls. Robbed of all her senses in a moment. The dirty snow is barely able to catch her fall, yet she feels no pain.

True fear rise in her chest. It's acutely familiar, yet not something she has experienced for millennia. Dread fills her while she's trying to recover her feet. 

Looking up she sees that Effie fell as well, and has already started to push herself upright using the cart for support. Around them she hears feet starting to run across the snow path. The occasional clink of armoured boots against stone where the snow has disappeared from the well-worn track is mixed with sounds of panicking yells. 

Mal straightens up. She quickly moves to help Effie stand as well. "We need to get out of here." Mal repeats, thoughts racing through her mind. The most prominent one being run. 

Effie looks at her before turning to watch the panicked crowd outside the village gates. The guards have started to huddle together at what seems to be their temporary camp in Haven, only well ingrained training keeping them from acting out their fear. 

"We can't leave them." Effie says barely more than a whisper while looking back at Mal with wide eyes. The white in them coloured by a green sickly tint.

Opening her mouth to protest, Mal hopes the slow comprehension she sees dawning in her friend will make her change her mind. Staying here is a death sentence. For both of them this time, Mal is certain. 

An explosion shatters the ground to the right of the cart, just a few paces away. Stone and gravel hits them, covering them in a shower of cold dirt. From the rubble Mal sees a figure unfolding, tall and deep green. The claws at the end of impossibly long arms flex and the small head snap up in a scream of victory as if tasting freedom for the first time. 

Mal fix her feet from under herself, acting on instinct as she steps in front of Effie. Pushing her thoughts and feelings to the back of her head to deal with later, she draws on her memory of how to fight. This she can do at the very least. Protect and keep safe. 

The terror in front of her looks at them with its too many eyes. All of them channelling its intent to hurt and cause pain in its intended pray. Crunching down it flickers out of existence, as if it's disappeared. But Mal knows better. 

She reach behind her, grabbing Effie's arm just below the shoulder. Bracing her legs to get a good grip on the slippery ground, she draws on her strength. The power of magic answers in a surge of energy coursing through her limbs. 

Stepping back she flings Effie across the open field. It's far enough away to get her to safety, but not so far as to give more than a few deep bruises with the hard impact. 

Not a moment later the terror flickers into existence once more. It's close enough to Mal that she feels the cold energy of fear licking at her body coming from the demon itself. Panic starts to rise rapidly. It threatens to paralyze Mal despite her knowing that the feeling is not entirely her own. 

The demon affecting her emotions is the cause, and Mal knows she has to work against the pull.

Fighting through it she flings back, just in time to avoid claws aiming to penetrate her head from the bottom up. Preparing a quick spell she punch forward, carefully keeping her legs firmly rooted on the loose ground. Her hand hits the terror in the chest, punching through it with a huge cracking sound. The terror howls, but Mal is not done yet. 

Another spell allows her to jump up right as the terror sweeps the ground and gravel with its long legs in an attempt at tripping Mal. It wants to turn the battle to its own advantage, but Mal won't let it. Drawing on her own growing determination she knows she'll keep going until she wins this fight. Just as she has done so many times in the past.

She reach out, grabbing a hard claw at its base. The sharp grapnel cuts through Mal's skin, but she knows the wound is shallow. Her magic is keeping her hand intact.

Breaking off the claw the terror screams yet again, but this time it's in agony. Panic start to rise in Mal once more, as the demon attempts to paralyze Mal with emotions once more. But this time it doesn't stand a chance of getting a hold of her actions. 

Mal grabs the demon's head. Keeping it still while ignoring the burning acid she knows will cause her blisters. Lifting the claw she impales the demon, green acid bursting from its new wound. 

The many eyes all roll back, closing the world away from the terror for good. Its form crumples to the ground. A heap of limbs and green acid sprawled out in Mal's fleeting moment of victory before it flickers away. The dead energy no longer able to keep a physical form.

Turning her head quickly now that the immediate danger is gone, she search for familiar red hair. Worry ebbing away as she quickly finds Effie exactly where she flung her a few moments ago. The light eyes are wide with fear. Hands sprawled in front of her as if to reach for Mal, even though that would be impossible. 

She is safe. Chest rising in the beat of her sharp breaths, and terrified eyes focused and aware. 

There is more shouting behind Mal, but she doesn't care. Tuning it out in favour of reaching her friend still propped up on the ground, Mal reach for her dearest friend.

Crunching down she moves to help Effie up from the cold snow, but Effie doesn't look at Mal anymore. Instead she's focused on something behind her, anxious fear still prominent in her expression. 

Turning around to follow Effie's gaze Mal sees a soldier. Or rather, a Templar, judging from the symbol on her chest plate. It's a tall woman with long dark hair in a tight ponytail. 

Her hands in front of her are angled up with open palms. Mal recognises the sign of peace, but it's also coupled with a weary expression. Kind eyes stares down at Mal. It's a pleading look that is entirely out of place on the uniformed body. 

The Templar is standing far enough away that should Mal want to run she'll have a good head start. And Mal definitely wants to run, but Effie is grabbing her shirt in a tight grip as if telling her to stay put. It's enough to make Mal hesitate. 

The Templar opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. As if changing her mind at the last second. Hesitantly she tries again, though the display does not placate Mal at all. 

She knows Templars recognize magic easily. This woman should have seen it during the short fight even though the power stayed within Mal's body the entire time. Mal knows she'll be hunted. Locked up or killed, if she can't prevent it. And what of Effie? She knows this as well, so what is she thinking?

"We need your help." the Templar starts off, finally having found her words. Her pleading expression, that is so unusual in her kind, is prominent on her face. "I know you're a mage, but anyone able to fight like you did have to help us. Regardless of our history." Mal search her tone for anything indicating the arrogant voice of your typical Templar.

And she finds it. The tremor in her words is just a play to trick Mal into agreeing. It has to be, as that symbol on her chest represents her rotten core. 

But Mal can't deny the desperate fear in the darker woman, no matter how much she wants to. The feeling is too familiar in herself.

"She'll go with you." a strong voice calls from her side. Shocked, Mal turns to face Effie, distracted from her own distrusting thoughts. 

Her friend is still sitting on the ground. A frail figure in the cold dirt and snow. A few tears of either fear or pain is staining her cheek, as she's clutches an injury to her side.

Looking past her tears, the strength in her voice is unquestionable. It's the same tone Effie use to bully drunkards from destroying farmland property. A weapon she wields only when she's angry.

Now it's directed at a Templar. 

"But only if you promise me you won't harm her yourself. Promise me she'll keep her freedom." The words from Effie's mouth leave no room for arguments. 

The slight shaking in her voice only serves to make the words sound like a genuine threat. Not words from someone whom has never held a sword in her hands before. And Mal knows that Effie has never experienced terror like this. She shouldn't be able to think clearly, let alone talk with authority to an actual Templar. 

And the Templar doesn't hesitate. Like Effie's display is something she is used to. 

"Of course I'll promise. I wouldn't dream of hurting my own." There is undeniable sincerity to her words. Like making promises of protecting the freedom of mages is something ingrained in her duties. As if the great symbol on her chest doesn't represent the very opposite. 

The words are so ridiculous in their claim that they work against their purpose of convincing Mal of anything other than pain.

It's enough for Effie though. Her grip on Mal tightens, a sign Mal doesn't like. "I know what you're thinking, but you can't run from this. It's time you stop that habit." 

The eyes looking up at Mal is begging for understanding, and Mal hates it. "It's the right thing to do. Now more than ever, they need you." Effie props herself up on an arm, moving slightly though it's clear it's causing her pain. Her movement quickly revealing what's wrong.

The leg is broken. Must have snapped when Mal threw her away from the terror demon. Effie's not going anywhere, because Mal can't heal her. Shame fills Mal's mind at the look of her injured friend. The strong and constant support Effie always offered repaid with Mal's own inadequacy. 

Effie's hand comes up and rubs at her cheek. Water and blood stains the long fingers, coming from the earlier fight with the Terror demon. 

Still crunched down Mal puts her hand around Effie, just as Effie grasps a hold on her. Lifting up the older woman is difficult, and Mal tries her best at keeping the broken leg supported. Though judging from Effie's expression she's not doing a good job of it. 

The Templar rush forwards, and while Mal tense with suspicion, she doesn't voice her protest when the taller woman helps steady the figure in her hands. A show of trust Mal thinks, or maybe nothing more than a leap of faith for them both.

"I hope you're right about this." Mal tells Effie as she carefully holds the older woman in her hands.

Effie looks up at her. Light eyes heavy with pain, but a soft smile is playing on her lips. Like she's the one who has to comfort Mal and not the other way around. "I know I am. You're not one to easily see past prejudice, but I do." The words are telling the truth, and Effie allowing Mal by her side all those years ago is enough proof of her claim. 

But Mal has never been naïve either. Effie has a claim to that trait as well.


	3. Chapter 3

After introducing herself as a melee fighting mage, Mal is immediately assigned to a scouting party going up the mountain. 

The female Templar is not having any trouble in keeping her word of Mal's safety. No one is even suggesting keeping Mal from fighting. It's not hard to see that they need every hand they can get. Immediate doom prevents the luxury of turning away help when offered. 

She almost wish to be met with protests when she introduce herself to the scouting party. Shared looks of relief amongst their members only serve to strengthen Mal's belief of the difficulty they're facing. The perceived risk of bringing a mage along is well worth it if it means a slightly higher chance of a successful mission and a blessed survival.

The cold wind hit them full force after they climb above the treeline. Powdery snow is swirling in the air across open space to find calm shelter behind rock formations. Soon, rifts starts to show up around their smaller group. Appearing out of thin air, and cutting off any chance of retreat or progress. 

They're sickly green. Pulling at Mal's magic. 

It's strange. She feels invigorated in the moments she approach the green force, and her magic is easier to command. Mal is immediately reminded of the time before the veil appeared, when magic was an ingrained part of her world and body. Yet, the increased power does not make up for the onslaught of demons constantly threatening their lives. A small advantage is not enough for the fighting horrors they constantly face. 

They're stuck up here. Between the barren stone mountain and deep snowy paths, while the vortex continues to consume their world above their heads. 

Mal has grown to hate the rifts and the gateway they provide for the demons into her world. And she shares her hatred with her current peers. A flicker of teeth as a Rage demon puts his claws against a defending shield, and a look of relief as an arm is saved by a swift pull of a hand. It's all emotions that Mal recognize in herself, and is reflected in the weary faces of her companions. 

The elevation the mountain path has given their group made this initially a good idea for scouting. Mal can clearly see a scorched crater in the mountain. Huge and black, like charcoals of a bonfire in the middle of winter, but on a much larger scale. 

She has been told there used to be a temple there. The Temple of Sacred Ashes where the peace talk were held when it exploded. So much for the divine and her final courage of taking action.

Three days they've been up here. Their numbers have been reduced, and heavily so. 

That's despite their lieutenant being really good at her job. She fights hard to keep them alive, and has worked out a system for when a few of them can rest at a time. When one of the younger scouts protested his turn, she told him in no uncertain terms that tired soldiers are more of a hindrance to the fight than an asset. Mal agrees. 

Though that doesn't mean they get adequate time off to stave their fatigue, nor does it mean that they're not slowly being picked off during the fights that are getting harder and harder to win. One by one of them are dying at the hands of the demons, despite their best efforts.

They won't live long like this. And Mal starts to wonder what it will be like to die with the rifts nearby. If she'll just wake up again like she always does, or if the gateways to the Fade has an impact on her soul. She'll find out soon enough.

\------------

They're fighting another wave of demons that just poured out of a rift. Camping right next to it, an attack is inevitable. 

Lieutenant Giessur figured they would have more warning between the waves of attacks doing it this way, instead of hiding from the rift and getting ambushed. Her logic works. Though if Mal wasn't used to dying she would be terrified being this close to the open Fade, just like the other remaining scouts currently are. 

Mal can't help but think that the lieutenant is as brave as she is practical. But the death of her subjects lies heavily on her conscious. Mal wouldn't be surprised if her bravery is fuelled by her guilt at being alive. 

Right now Giessur is on the other side of the battle. She's trying her best at killing a Rage demon all by herself. It would be foolish of her if it wasn't entirely necessary. Those things are difficult to deal with without magic, as they're entirely made up of molten fire. And while Giessur hitting the demon with a steel sword will lead to its eventual death, it's as effective as killing a darkspawn with a spoon. And just as dangerous. 

Mal's gaze dims with pre-emptive numbness at another life lost as the demon lifts its limb, clearly in preparation to perform a scorching attack against the tired lieutenant. 

But then the fire stills. 

A thin sheet of ice glistening in the sun perfectly surrounds the angry demon. Nothing escapes the frozen layer. The demon quenches it's fury and dies in an icy cage, and Giessur gets away. It's miraculous. Her sword and metal shield are smoking with the residual heat, and must be hurting her hands, but she is breathing.

A Terror demon pops out from under Mal. Usually she would have noticed something before so she could get away, but she is too tired. Her mind struggles to process even the most immediate movements in her field of vision. 

The demon catch a clawed hand around Mal's hip. She rise her wobbling sword arm to cut off the dangerous limb digging into her worn body, and is surprisingly unhindered in her work. 

The claws let her go, and the demon howls in fear. Looking up at the sickly creature right in front of her, Mal sees a wooden bolt impaled in its head. The end of it is sticking out of what once was an eye. It must have passed right above Mal's own head. 

Between the thick wooden bolt and a lacking arm the demon collapse. The body crumbles to small pieces until nothing is left but an imprint in the snow and the thick wooden bolt with the metal tip. 

Mal turns around. No time to contemplate her continued survival just yet. Looking around herself she search for her peers so she can help, even if her body tells her she's in no condition to move her feet. 

Then she spots an unfamiliar woman. She's standing by Giessur, with short questions coming from her mouth while her hands have her shield and sword ready should she need it. The slight movements cause the metal in her hands to reflect a sharp green tint, originating from the rift floating a short stride from where she's standing. Her armour reveals her as a soldier from the Chantry, with a huge eye displayed proudly on her chest plate.

But in the face of these demons Mal wouldn't mind a Templar. A chuckle escapes Mal like she's a mad woman. Her overstimulated mind reminds her that she must truly be desperate if she actually hopes to run into one of those religious fanatics instead of running in the opposite direction.

Mal continues to turn her head, searching, but she can't find more demons. Miraculously they're all gone. The poor scouts are left heaving, but not a single one of them is lying dead on the ground.

What she sees is a miss matched trio of people standing at the edge of the former battle. They look as tired as anyone would be after three days arse deep in demons, but shockingly there's very little fear in their eyes. 

And Mal finds her saviour, a stocky dwarf with a crossbow almost as big as him. His fingers are holding the weapon with practised ease. A sly smile is playing on his face. A smile Mal feels is so out of place that it has no right to be there.

Next to him is an elf. A bow in one gloved hand and a face filled with the thick and intricate lines Mal despise, even more than the Templar uniform. But the most shocking thing about him is his remaining naked hand. Lifting it up Mal can clearly see that it's spitting green light the same as the rifts. Nothing but determination and concentration mar his face as he studies the rift in their midst.

As Mal watch the dalish in bewilderment, the magic in his hand connects to the angry rift with a powerful force. The elf widens his stand. As if he's readying himself for a show of physical strength before he…pulls. 

His hand is thrown back in a gesture. His body following in what must have been a great effort, and the rift…. The rift that has killed so many scouts, and was sure to kill the rest of them given enough time closes. The veil spits one last flicker of green light as it repairs itself flawlessly like it never had been ripped at all.

They're safe. No more of them are going to die to demons. And this man, a dalish elf no less, whom is bending over in fatigue while trying to catch his laboured breath, saved them by using a power that affects the veil itself. It's something Mal has never seen before. 

As her mind starts to catch up to what just happened, she's barely conscious of a laugh escaping her lips. Breath coming out in short bursts as she fills the silence in the snowy field. 

She knows this is a sign as sure as anything that the veil is finally coming down. After all this time there's something actually able to affect the veil itself. It's been millennials since its appearance, yet nothing so far has made even the slightest dent in the thin sheet separating Thedas from the Fade. 

Mal always believed it was inevitable that someone would figure it out at some point, but it's not lost on her the ironic beauty of it being a dalish elf partaking in this world altering event. They've always strived to reclaim their lost empire, and now they're closer than ever before. Mal never thought they could do it. With their floundering, misunderstood stories and language, and a stubborn will to never get involved in politics even at the cost of their own lives, she thought them idiots. 

Still, the feat of closing the hated rift makes this dalish man her favourite person in the odd saviours group. The others not even coming in close. Even if this world is coming to an end, dying to rifts and demons is a horrible way to go. 

And now they have their saviour. And Mal wouldn't care if he's a nug with lyrium damage, she'd still feel elated.

Giessur approach the three newcomers with the Templar at her heels. She's limping in an attempt at relieving a painful injured leg, but there is no mistaking the relief spread wide across her face. "You came just in time. I didn't think we'd make it." Her eyes stare at the dalish with the green hand, her shock and gratitude mixing together. 

Judging from the many eyes on the dalish elf she's not alone in her array of feelings amongst the remaining scouts. Relief is spread thick here, were despair used to hold its firm hand just moments ago.

The Templar moves forwards. Shield and sword lowered as she gives the condition of the scouts a quick glance. "The path to the forward camp is clear." The sharp words are coupled with her Nevarran accent, and continues to confirm Mal's impression of a battle hardened woman. 

Giessur gives a slight nod in response and tells them that she'll take the remaining scouts with her down the path of the mountain. Down to safety. 

A bare faced elf quietly leaves the small gathering. Seemingly he's not bothering with the decision making of others, and favours walking over to Mal as she's sitting, or rather is collapsed, on the ground. 

Mal notice his foot wraps and can't stop a displeased frown forming on her face. He's most likely an apostate then. Same as Mal, but with romantic feelings about the dalish given his lack of practical footwear. 

The man crunch down next to Mal, a respectable distance away. It's still close enough so that he can touch her knee with a long calloused hand. "You're spell exhausted." he says with a monotone and unremarkable voice. Like he's finding dung stuck under his feet after a trip to the stables. 

"If you wear proper shoes you'll start to smile again. Trust me. Nothing is better than not finding muck in between your toes after a long day." Mal says while shaking her tired head. The sudden relief from the certainty of a violent death must be wreaking havoc on Mal's emotions. Cracking jokes in this situation isn't sane.

Oh well. It's not like the opinion of this elf matters to Mal anyway.

Rightfully ignoring Mal's ridiculous words, the elf reach for a pouch at his hip. Undoing the straps, he pulls up a small glass vial with a soft blue glowing content. Mal recognise it instantly.

"No lyrium. I'll pass out." she says, her voice hoarse and cracks in intervals. The elf at her side lifts his eyebrows in apparent surprise before schooling his expression to one of contemplation. The first real emotion he's displayed so far. His grey eyes staring at her face are too intense for Mal's liking. 

She knows that even if she can't tolerate lyrium she'll recover quickly. It must be a benefit of whatever is wrong with her soul. Especially now that ability is working wonders, as access to the Fade is closer than usual due to the veil ripping apart all around them. 

Raising her arm Mal points a finger towards the sky. Her eyes finds the dalish saviour, and when she catch his gaze she asks with a voice that threatens to break apart her words. "Can you close that thing?" the marked face looks at her, brown eyes uncertain. He seems scared, but not for his life. She notice that he's young. Probably too young for what Mal is asking of him, but it's not like the world has ever been fair. 

The dailish clans like to point that out frequently, and they're not wrong. 

"I'll try." he says. Sharp words not backed up in the least by his weary expression, but it will have to do.

Mal push herself up, moving to stand and the elf helps her silently by holding her elbow in a tight grasp. "Should you be doing that?" the dwarf asks. His crossbow is ready in his hands, yet it's aiming at nothing. Looking at him Mal can see his worry. He must be kind under that sly grin he was spouting earlier Mal thinks. 

"I'm fine." she answers as she bends down to pick up her dropped sword. Already her strength is returning. Though she knows it won't take much effort for her magic to deplete once more. The dizziness and fatigue a persistent reminder of that fact. "You can't expect me to rest as the world implodes on itself. I'm coming with you." 

The dwarf shakes his head in resignation at Mal's answer. Clearly resigned to her insanity. "You know, most people would consider running in the opposite direction." His sly accusation is coupled with a worried expression. A stark contrast with his teasing tone, but it's not an actual protest against her tagging along. Mal takes notice of that. 

And he's right. Just three days ago she wanted to run away herself. If it weren't for Effie getting injured she would have left right then and there. Now it's different. She didn't fight the onslaught from the Fade for three days to leave before it ends. At least she wants to see how her world goes under. 

Stupidly brave. Samhal used to say that it was a virtue, and Mal will trust him this once.

Looking at the path forward, the dwarf fix his eyes on the crater in the mountain where the Temple used to sit. Scorched stone covered in a light layer of snow meets his eyes. Then he starts to mumble to himself. The sound is almost silent, but in the now peaceful path of snow Mal can just catch the words "But I'm hardly one to talk about common sense."


	4. Chapter 4

Travelling in a small party towards the temple is a quick and efficient way of getting to know your companions Mal thinks. Nothing is like danger and battles to learn of peoples true selves. 

Varric, the stocky dwarf, is not the person Mal had initially thought. Or rather, his ill times jokes is worse than Mal had imagined. She can't stop laughing at them, which is not something she wants to do in the midst of burning corpses. Luckily for him, his skills in battle more than makes up for his transgression in Mal's eyes. Effie on the other hand, she would have his ears. 

On their way to the former Temple he always looks out for people. Especially the dalish elf, Mahanon. He has a constant overview of the battles, and knows exactly where he needs to be at any point in time. Using tricks and tactics he lures the demons into deadly traps in synergy with his fighting companions. 

And after she saw first-hand how he used his crossbow to save Mahanon from a shade by tearing it to shreds with his rapid firing, he rightfully earns her respect. 

The black haired woman named Cassandra is to be feared in battle. She charges in without hesitation, always finding and hitting a strategic weak point in her enemies ranks. And apparently she's not just a normal Templar. With her power, she tears apart the Fade dependent demons, making it seem like child's play. 

Mal really likes her. Pragmatic and deadly, and most importantly, she's fighting on Mal's side despite her vows.

Even if she sometimes sends a suspicious glance towards Mal. Those glances are enough to convince Mal to avoid the woman as much as possible should they survive this. It's alright. Mal can't find it in herself to mind too much given the current benefits of the woman's sword arm. 

And then there is Solas. 

A bare faced elf and, as Mal quickly finds out, an immensely powerful mage. Flawlessly he bends the Fade to his will, never utilizing more energy than he needs to get his desired effect. And he's obviously used to battle. Outshining brilliance in his every move and decision, skills that are easily hidden if one doesn't know where to look. 

With his silent nature Mal had thought of him a scholar more than a fighter, but he might be the most accomplished battle mage she has ever met. She's impressed. Even if his inspiration from long dead elves is obvious, he seems to have focused on the effectiveness of their fighting style. And if it's one thing the elves of old knew really well it was how to kill each other. 

Together the three make sure Mal and Mahanon can safely get to the temple. 

The two of them not really engaging in fights unless cornered, which seldom happens. Of course, Mahanon is still invaluable in his ability to close the rifts, but he's not a skilled archer. He's probably fine for hunting game, but demons are another matter. Yet his usefulness far outshines the others, for as long as he stays alive. 

As for Mal she tries to limit her use of magic. Her skills in close combat is valuable to that purpose, but with fewer spells her hits and blocks are reduced to a fumbling non-mage level. She stays back protecting Mahanon, as he's their only means for long term safety. It's the easiest job, and entirely necessary.

But in Mahanon's defence of his lack of skill, Mal is certain his hand is causing him pain. 

She choose not to think too much about that discovery, and pushes it to the back of her mind.

\---------

It's clear that they've reach the centre of the exploded Temple. The crater dips steeply into the mountain, carved as a consequence of a massive force. The stone is black and scorched, and grows warmer to the touch the further down they get. There still hasn't been enough time to cool down the crater in the cold mountain air. 

At least there's no bodies here. Even the bones were burnt or shredded in the explosion. 

There is a soft light coming from rocks in the mountain. Varric warns them not to touch it, telling them that it's poisonous lyrium that will turn them mad. Mal has no trouble believing him.

They climb further down the crater. Black stone and glowing lyrium pales in comparison to what they find next.

"What is that?" Mahanon asks incredulous as images appears in mid-air. 

Translucent figures moves like they're dreams in the Fade instead of appearing in the waking world. Mal has seen this before so she knows it's harmless, if extremely rare. The thin veil allows for the Fade to bleed through, so the comparison to dreams is an accurate one for what is happening. Solas does a good job of explaining just that.

The images tells a story of how the explosion came to be. How Mahanon interrupted a ritual preformed on the divine herself, and that she called to him for help. The see a shadowed man playing the villain, killing the divine and causing the explosion tearing through the veil. But unfortunately, Mahanon does not remember what happened himself. Much to the dismay of Cassandra, who calls out in grief to her precious Divine.

But the story has different implications for Mal. It wasn't the dalish that discovered the method of taking down the veil. Rather, it's this mad person doing insane rituals.

Strangely enough, there's a comfort in that, Mal thinks. She can't bear the thought of her own people reversing the world back to what it once was. The world before the veil is something she dreads. Her nightmare of people once again falling into battles of immeasurable power and the never ending exploitation of slaves out of necessity to win the war. Mad people she can understand would want such a world. 

Her own people…There's a tragedy in the dalish wanting such a future when they are capable of love and compassion for others. Mal can barely stand the idea that it is ignorance that is the cause of their idolization of their horrifying past. 

So while Cassandra despair at the images in the sky, Mal starts to think that there might yet be some hope. In Mal's experience mad people are easier to stop, even if they pose a tremendous danger. There's more hope for a future now than there used to be, even if they're still facing the same tremendous force of destruction.

Though, the first step is sealing the breach in the sky tearing at the veil, and it will not be easy.

A quick glance at their saviour tells her that he's thinking the exact same thing in terms of his duty. He's looking up at the sky, and the tattooed lines on his face twist with his growing fear around his eyes. His hand is what will save them, but his young head is needed in the process.

"You're not alone." Mal tells him soothingly, touching his shoulder. Her cheeks tug at the corners in what she wish is a smile. She hopes her words come across as comforting, and not just weird.

The dark eyes behind Mahanon's long lashes turns to look at her. The fear and uncertainty clear as day in his expression, though there is a slight movement of a sly smile forming on his thin lips. A line across his chin twist into something that reminds Mal of vines twirling around thick branches. 

"That's a tacky thing to say." the words are coming out of his mouth in a thin whisper, but there is no mistaking the playful humour behind them. It doesn't reach his eyes, but it's a start. 

And besides. Mal's tired mind is just now catching up to the fact that a reclusive dalish is calling her out on her tact. 

Mahanon's smile widens. The thick vallaslin around his mouth makes his teeth look impossibly big on his thin face. "You looked like you needed a pick-me-up." he explains before turning to look towards Cassandra. 

Worry creeping back into his eyes, though his smile stays. "I'm pretty sure Cassandra will keep us both safe. She's too terrifying to lose to demons." Following his line of sight, Mal sees the Templar with steel in her eyes. Determination channelled straight at the breach itself. If Cassandra had been a mage Mal is certain that the breach would have no choice but to combust in on itself.

Dear Creators save her. She's starting to believe in safety provided by a Templar, and laugh at jokes made by a dalish.

\------------ 

The rift in the middle of the crater is temporarily closed. A thin line of green light dances in the air, and nothing bursts out of the rift and tries to kill them. 

But it's connected to the breach itself, and has to be sealed for them to close the vortex in the sky. According to Solas, Mahanon has to open up the seams into the Fade and then close it again properly. While it is open there will undoubtedly be demons coming through. 

Which means that while Mahanon deals with the rift itself, the rest of them has to deal with the deadly demons while protecting the man representing their only means of salvation. 

Slowly, the stone ledges fills with the remaining chantry archers, and a few soldiers in various uniforms surrounds the closed rift. Their armour is tattered and their swords are dulled after heavy use. The men look too tired for another battle, slouched under the weight of their own equipment. But there's no one protesting their commands. No hesitation in their heavy movements, making Mal believe that they will fight with whatever strength they have left. 

Mal can only imagine that it's hope, or a sense of duty towards those that are left behind that is the motivation for them to willingly put themselves as front line fighters. An action Mal deeply regrets, as the beauty of self-sacrifice leaves a lot of pain for those that are left behind. But she's not about to protest. Practicality calls for their bravery. It calls for all of them. 

It's time. Mahanon takes his place next to the rift. A quick glance around himself at the people supporting his back, before his eyes return to their target. He's scared, but by now Mal knows with certainty that he'll follow through.

Lifting his hand with the green mark, Mahanon angles it towards the rift. A slight pull, and the rift reach out towards his glowing hand. A light of force forms between the mark and the veil, and the rift slowly starts to grow.

Mahanon keeps his arm as still as he can against the power of the rift, but Mal can see the shaking of his limb. 

His focus is entirely dedicated to his duty. The green is becoming brighter and brighter as the air around the rift twists and turns. Watching and waiting Mal starts to think that Mahanon might tear the veil apart entirely if the rift doesn't open soon. 

But then Mahanon rip his hand away in a single gesture. A force of power pulling his entire body backwards, just like Mal has seen before. 

The rift opens, and if Mal had thought it possible she would say that it's angry. Green energy spits out from the edges of the rift, hitting the rocks and stone around itself. Shades from the Fade appear like they're conjured, running in haste with their claws ready to attack the closest person they see. 

Mal tries to react. To run forward and reach the other side of the crater where the shades are charging the tired soldiers, but she is cut off.

Right in front of her a shape starts to form. She runs back. The only thing she can do in the face of an unknown giant of a demon. 

Soon, it materialize fully, towering over her with his huge body and blocking her view to the rest of the battle. The scales glint like pieces of sharp metal enclosing his entire body, and Mal knows that they're practically impenetrable. Standing on two feet he straightens his back towards the sky, uncurling his body, and if possible he seems to be growing even larger. His arms come up in clawed triumph, while his face, adorned with an animalistic wide grin, howls in joy. 

The deep rumble echoes across the open field, and Mal feels a deep pang to her stomach at the destruction that is to come.

It's a pride demon. One of the biggest and deadliest demons of the Fade, and it's celebrating its assault on Thedas. 

Already Mal can see the small projectiles from the archers aiming and shooting at the big demon. They don't penetrate the metal scales, but they do distract the creature. It snarls against the soldiers daring to try and harm his skin. 

In an instant Cassandra is at its feet. Movements precise and efficient, utilizing the demons distraction towards the stone ledges. Mal would have thought her an idiot with a death wish if she didn't know Cassandra's skills and tactical insight, as a single step with the demon's feet would kill her. 

Instead, she angles her sword upwards towards the knee, and thrust her weapon like a spear. Her entire weight is behind the single movement upwards, and her entire spirit is drawing strength from a fiery cry.

The sword penetrates the knee in a swift stab. The demon howls yet again, but this time in obvious pain. The head gives a twist as it looks down at the tiny woman at its feet, just as the leg give in from under him. Cassandra jumps away for a clear exit. Looking winded but with eyes wild and alert.

"Now! The demon is vulnerable!" she shouts with her voice carrying through the noise of battle. 

The soldiers that isn't engaging the shades rush forwards. All with their swords held high and voices raised with the promise to kill. This includes Mal, as she runs towards the rift and the huge demon beneath it. Sword in one hand and a wooden shield in the other, though she doubts the shield will be of much use. 

The same cannot be said for her sword. She already has a plan for where to put it, inspired by her new favourite Templar.

The demon has his back turned to Mal, hunched over with his deadly arms flung around in an attempt at defending himself from a desperate and inspired onslaught. Studying the situation in a rapid glance, Mal decides to run at an angle to his hip where she will be able to lodge her sword into his exposed lower back. 

Of course, demons don't have convenient weaknesses such as kidneys, but she's certain a deep wound will do a lot of damage. And now there's only a few paces left before she's there. The poor soldiers giving it their all against the deadly creature.

The demon gives yet another howl in pain. Victory is certain. Mal feels it with the tide of this battle. Despite the demon's frightening nature and the bone deep fatigue of everyone else in this fight, it will die to the strong will of people. Mal loves it. The thrill of victory giving her a surge of energy flowing through her limbs, like a river quenching a thirsty pond.

The demon twists to the side, and Mal loose her opportunity to lodge her sword deep into its body. It doesn't matter. She'll get another chance. With her magic surging through her body she'll get another advantage sooner rather than later.

But then the demon turns its small eyes on her. Looking straight past Mal and the angled tip of her sword. The fury in the creature is well passed the insane, and that is a sign as sure as anything that the pride in the demon has been gravely wounded. It is dying.

Though Mal gets a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. It's an instinct she has honed through the times. Without thought she immediately turns around, searching for what drew the demon's attention. 

She finds Mahanon. 

He's positioned well out of the battle with his mark angled up towards the rift. Strong lines of concentration and sweat mar his face. He doesn't notice the pride demon. Totally oblivious to it's insane fury. 

Mal turns her gaze back just in time to see the demon gather a ball of lightning between its hands. The magic at the core of its being collects in this attack. Not at all bothering with the soldiers currently attacking and slashing at his metal skin. His eyes doesn't leave Mahanon for a moment. Mal has no doubt that he's doing this to protect the rift. 

All demons hate the veil. In his pride he'll do all he can to prevent its repair. 

Mal steps to the side, perfectly positioned between the demon an its pray. The creature doesn't hesitate at all. Probably thinking that Mal will be collateral damage to its devastating attack. He would be right, if Mal had not had her magic. 

She stands firm on the rocky ground, letting the soles of her feet take a hold of the stone she's standing on. Like she is part of the mountain itself. Unmoving and unyielding. 

The demon overestimating his power will be its undoing. 

Self-sacrifice is something that Mal is vastly familiar with, and at the same time is a concept that is tremendously twisted in her mind. After all, it's never a true sacrifice when she knows she can't die for real. People have called her brave in the past, but that's not true. She won't throw her life around like a vint changing his wardrobe to please the fashion of the season. 

The problem lies in the fact that she doesn't know what's going to happen to her if she dies here. The veil is in tatters. Her future is unknown.

So instead of accepting her uncertain death, she gathers a spell. One of the most powerful spells that she has in her arsenal. Casting it, she feels her skin turn to stone. It's uncomfortable, like the freedom of her body dissipates into the tight constraints of a stone prison, and not to mention painful. 

She always wondered if this was the feeling dwarfs got when they turned into golems.

The demon roars once more, its attack ready. Right before the ball of electricity hits her, she sees a blue glowing barrier caressing her skin. It's tight and full of energy, safe and pure. 

Probably Solas doing his bit to protect her, and she has a moment to be grateful before the powerful electric ball hits her at full force. Then it all turns to agony. 

The blue barrier is quickly stripped away, and all she has left is her own defence. The stone prevents most of the electric attack from reaching her core, but nothing can really stop all of it. Not at this level of power. 

She can't scream in her current form. Her lips are sealed shut with her spell, but at least she'll live. Her organs is taking damage, but it's nothing a good dose of healing can't fix later. She'll survive, and so will Mahanon and his precious mark.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Mal notice as she wakes is a dull pain throughout her body. It's fleeting and makes her feel tender. Like she's become one huge bruise, but it's not as bad as it could have been considering the cause of her pain. Elfroot and healing magic is alleviating her condition, no doubt. She can even smell the herbs.

"Are you awake yet?" the familiar voice calls from right next to her. Cranking up her heavy eyelids she can see light red hair and pale blue eyes. The relief of seeing Effie is overwhelming. 

She looks good. Eyes alert and a soft smile on her lips. No hint of pain anywhere in her expression, and she's sitting upright. Mal feels a tightness in her chest. Tears threaten to cloud her vision. 

This is her reason to fight. The blue eyes glowing with life, and a smile of happiness playing at Effie's lips. Her friend is safe.

"Stop crunching up your face like a constipated druffalo. It's not the sight I want to see first thing as you wake up." the teasing tone doesn't match the relief splayed across Effie's face, with her own tears forming in her pale eyes. 

Mal doesn't care. She lets her tears fall. 

Blinking at the blurriness of her vision she feels the cold of wet skin forming on her cheeks. In return she gets a wide grin deepening the wrinkles around her friends face, and forming new ones from the ends of the well-established lines. 

It all culminates in a big hug. The movement reinforce her impression of her body having turned to a huge bruise which Effie's now squeezing, but she doesn't mind. After all, what is a little pain after days of continuously fighting demons. She deserves this comfort.

When the hug finally ends she takes a moment to wipe her face. The heavy feeling in her muscles thankfully dissipating with her being awake and moving.

Then, as if there's a shift in the air, Mal remembers she has to ask some questions. There are a lot of them, and she needs answers. All of them too important to postpone.

"Tell me what happened." her voice baring the mark of not having been used for a while. With Effie being here Mal knows she's been knocked out long enough to be carried down from the mountain. Behind the red hair she can see the wooden walls, and the open window with daylight shining through. She must be in Haven.

"The breach is sealed, though not gone. They say that if the Herald gets more power than he should be able to seal it for good." now that's good news. A sealed breach won't spit out more demons. 

Though the last part of that sentence doesn't make much sense. It wasn't a religious Herald that sealed the breach, but simply a young and scared dalish boy with his luck hitting the negatives. 

Effie must have seen the question on Mal's face, because she answers quickly with a smile of admiration. A smile Mal didn't expect. "The dalish man with the mark. He's the Herald of Andraste." Mal is dumbfounded. What has the Chantry got to do with anything? 

"He's dalish. He doesn't believe in the Maker." she protest, but Effie gives her a look of pity. Like it's Mal that don't understand, though it's clear that Effie is the one who's delusional.

"But the Maker clearly believes in him. Everybody says so." 

Great, Mal thinks solemnly. If everybody here believes this shit about Heralds and the Maker, there's only one explanation. They're in a fucking cult. 

And Effie, who's only been marginally practising her religion has clearly found her reason to deepen her faith. Damn this.

Though Effie has always accepted Mal's dislike for the Chantry, she never truly understood the reasons for heresy. As if believing in the Maker is a blessing, and it's only right to feel sorry for Mal who can't accept it. Like a life is lesser lived for a lack of faith. 

With the breached practically sealed, and Haven having turned into a cult, Mal has seldom had a better reason for leaving a place than this. However, judging the current Effie she might not want to follow Mal if she flees.

And then there is the question of the mark on Mahanon's hand. Can Mal really leave that alone?

"You forgot that neither of us are religious fanatics Effie." Mal continues as a matter of fact, but all the comment does is deepen Effie's scowl. Clearly logic has entirely left her friends mind. 

"Stop being so bloody bigoted. They've declared the Inquisition of old reborn. The late divine sanctioned it before she died. " Effie continues, but with a nervous line drawn across her mouth. Mal knows that line well, having lived with the woman for more than 20 years. 

She wants something selfishly against Mal's will. Unfortunately, the sorry elf has a good idea of what that might be. "And before you start to think you're in trouble with the Templars here, you're not. I got their guarantee that they're not arresting apostates that helps them out. You're not the only mage they've taken in that never belonged to a circle." 

"And you trust their word?" Mal counters, still fighting what she's starting to realize is a losing argument. Her friend has turned to religion, and has been contaminated with the insanity that follows.

"Of course."

"Because of the Herald."

"…well, yeah." A guilty look dawns on Effie as Mal glares at her. Clearly she understands that her trust in the Inquisition hinges on the same faith Mal lacks, and she's pulling them both into this using Mal's affection for their friendship. Effie should feel bad, Mal thinks. It's well deserved after she managed to get herself brainwashed. 

"You know the Inquisition's purpose was to eradicate the dangerous use of magic? It was the beginning of the Templars. Do you really want to become a part of that?" the contempt is practically dripping off Mal's words. The rasp in her words only adding to the effect. 

She remembers the noble chase after the abuses of magic, like abominations and powerful blood mages. It quickly changed though. It didn't take long for the hunt to target mages in general. 

Granted, people in power those early days never forgot that mages deserved their rights, but their subjects weren't so lenient. The waves of conflict throughout the ages between mages and non-mages can all be attributed to the birth of the Chantry, and the Inquisition with the ideas they fronted. 

Effie cross her arms in front of herself. She only does that when preparing to yell at Mal like she's a difficult child, ignoring the fact that Mal is older than Effie by a few thousand years. "The rest of us isn't stuck in the past. Unlike you, we move on. The Inquisition want to bring order to Thedas. To end the conflict and bring those responsible for the conclave and the breach to justice. They're not looking to take sides." 

"Until they're forced to take sides, that is." Even if Effie speaks the truth of their intention, Mal is not so sure they're able to keep up their convictions in the long run. Ideals seldom holds up in the real world.

Effie isn't budging. She's not questioning her new faith in the slightest, much to Mal's despair. Mal's going to lose this argument, she knows. Resignation already creeps into her mind. "They've started in the Hinterlands. Trying to protect the people still there while driving out both the mages and Templars. You could help you know." the last part is coming out as a whisper from Effie's lips. A stark contrast with her earlier words. 

She looks down, not meeting Mal's eyes. The Hinterlands. A promise of bringing back Effie's home would be the way to go in convincing the woman to join the Inquisition's cause. 

But as Mal continue to hesitate Effie gets more and more fidgety. Her brows furrowing to give Mal a glare conveying her agitation. Clearly she's had enough of what she must think is Mal's stupid stubbornness. 

"Stop running away! You always try to run like the concept is logged so far up your arse it's reached your core, but I know you can do better. This is a chance for you to do the right thing, and Maker's balls you ought to." Effie's loud words can clearly be heard by the people outside, but Mal doesn't care. Her friends anger surprise her more than anything. 

"You know, I've realized that someone like you can change the world. I've always known that you have the power to make Thedas a better place, but instead you stayed with me. Lazing your days away on a simple farm.

And I let you. For years I let you stay. Rotting away your potential and having the world suffer for it. And I'm sorry." the last part was not aimed at Mal. Effie has her head in her hands, almost like a prayer. A genuine apology for what she feels is a sin. 

But she is wrong. Mal is just a person. Sure, she's different enough to make it difficult for Effie to realize this simple fact, but a long life and some faulty magic does not make her special. Her abilities certainly hasn't made her happy, but staying with Effie did. Happiness is all that she can really hope for in her life.

"Damn it Effie, this isn't what I signed up for when I settled with you.

…alright. I'll stay." the curt answer leaves Mal's lips before she entirely makes up her mind about it all. But…Effie's got a point. Staying, it might be the right call. At least it's an opportunity to figure out what this whole mess means. Or until she can convince Effie to leave, whichever comes first.

Effie's face lights up once more. Just like when the ram births more calves than expected, except that now she's just getting her will across Mal's thick skull. She claps her hands together in a gesture of joy and self-praise. No consideration at all to the fact that Mal, an apostate elf, just tied herself to the rebirth of an ancient bigoted cult. A cult that's up against magic which threatens the fabric of the world. 

"Good. I've got my position in the kitchen, while you have to report to Commander Cullen. You've kept him waiting for three days." Mal wonders where Effie's faith in Mal's abilities really comes from. It's clear she's not even a match against Effie's temper. 

\----------

Mal is really starting to doubt Effie's words about this Inquisition being better than the last. 

She's standing in front of the Commander of the Inquisition forces. A tall man with curly blond hair. Shoulders hunched in a way that's enhanced by the thick fur surrounding his neck. Furthermore, there's pieces of metal strapped to strategic places for his protection. Clearly he's a pragmatic man.

They're inside a small white tent on a stretch outside the village gate. Obviously it's his new office, having set up out here despite there being a perfect chantry building for his continued operations at the innermost sanctum of the village. 

She had to wait her turn from the long line of people outside wanting to talk to the Commander about one thing or another. It can't be comfortable for him to do his duty in these conditions, and Mal can contest to it not being comfortable for the people outside.

Mal suspects he's out here due to the training ground for the soldiers being right outside. She can hear the sound of dull practise swords hitting dummies and shields through the tent cloth, and this man perfects the feeling of being smack in the middle of a military field of practise. He's huge.

His scowl makes her think he wants to wring out her ears, and his glare convince her he'll do something worse to what's left afterwards. And from the people she saw leaving his tent she suspects she's not the only one having received this greeting. 

But then he lowers his head, as if in resignation. Giving it a small shake before looking up at her with red tired eyes. Mal just now notice the deep lines marring his face and the stark blue bags almost reaching his cheek. He's deeply fatigued, and in desperate need of sleep. 

"Effie spoke to me." The words are deliberately slow. Or maybe that's just how Mal experience them as she gets a gut sinking feeling about what that conversation was about. Or more like how it was carried out. Effie's no coward to big men if she thinks her friends are in need of her protection.

"She mentioned the promise made by Lysette that convinced you to help at the Temple." he continues on the same note. Mal is sure Effie made a spectacle about it, even though yelling at the leader of a religious cult about an apostate is a terrible idea. Effie, the stupid-

"Lysette acted well. You have our sincere gratitude." The expression on the Commander doesn't change much from his terrifying and contemplating glare. But somehow Mal thinks he's being sincere. She definitely did not expect to feel that way at all. 

Military people, especially people tightly knit to the chantry are usually liars, and too self-righteous to see past their own nose. Mal has more than enough experience with the way they're too caught up in their own cause for religious glory, deeply inspired by the exalted march Mal calls the great murder spree. But looking at the large and fatigued man bent over his too small desk…the picture just doesn't quite fit.

This military clad man looks at Mal. Hazel eyes meets her brown ones in careful consideration. She gets the feeling that he's not looking at an apostate or even a mage. 

Behind his heavy eyelids threatening to betray his will of steel of staying awake, he regards Mal with honesty. It's uncomfortable in it being so unusual. It's intimidating. And Mal no longer wonders why the people leaving this tent before her looked like they'd shat bricks.

"You're an apostate that never belonged to a circle, and I can well understand your hesitation in joining the Inquisition. Your friend was…adamant in her explanation of your doubts." Mal flinch. Not only is Mal going to get in trouble for her heresy, no doubt, but Effie has some serious issues with the hierarchy of authority. Mal would rather this Commander forget about her dear friend entirely. 

"We will not turn down help when offered, as we're hardly in the position to do so. You have proven yourself willing to help, and have a great ability to follow through with your offer." 

Right. Mal knows that this isn't normal. Apostates do not get commended by chantry commanders. Instead, they get killed. But the would-be facts aside, the reality is that Mal is regarded with something resembling gratitude behind the strain of somebody struggling to keep his body awake. 

"So I'll just stay then, and help wherever needed." Mal tries to goad out his command for her so she can end the conversations and leave, but it comes out sounding incredibly weak. The small cracks in her voice coupled with the perpetual sounds from the training outside, her words are almost too silent to be heard at all. 

Creators, this man puts her off her game.

"You fight not to defeat your enemy, but to keep your people alive. And you're very good at it." the words leave his mouth slowly. Like it's a statement that is deserving of contemplation. It probably is in his mind, and she can't decide if it's admiration or suspicion colouring his words. Maybe a bit of both.

But then he looks down at his desk. The first break from his gaze that Mal has gotten since she first entered this stuffy tent. There's a map in front of him claiming his attention. 

Mal follows his gaze, and finds that it's a map she knows well. "You're familiar in the Hinterlands, I know. We're currently working on creating a foothold there, specifically in the Crossroads on the way to Redcliff. To be able to protect the refugees there, it's imperative that we end the fighting between the Templars and apostates in the area. I want you to report to Corporate Vale. He's in charge, and will know to put your skills to good use." 

Mal nods, but as she doesn’t receive a reply she continues. "Yes, sir." the cracking of her voice makes its appearance even in these short words, but it seems to be good enough for the Commander. 

"I trust that you'll not discriminate between the mages and Templars, as both are equally responsible for the chaos in the Hinterlands. That said, Maker bless you. The refugees, as well as the Inquisition needs your success." The tired lines down his face create a deep contrast with the intensity in his expression as he says these last words. The only critical comment he's had so far concerning Mal's status as a mage. 

Either he's as fair as he's portraying himself to be, or he's so desperate for soldiers he's willing to chance it on rogue apostates. Mal is hoping for the former to be true, but knows it's most likely the latter.


	6. Chapter 6

Coming to the Hinterlands Mal can finally witness the true destruction that has happened here due to the conflict. There's not a single house nor cottage without heavy scorch marks or with walls and roofs caved in. 

And even old Mari, the local apothecary with her herb garden, were found dead under the ruins of her kitchen table. She must have refused to leave as the fighting got closer. 

Mal is not surprised. The plants in her garden were her life's work, and she loved them. She used to say they were the embodiment of her legacy, a little bit of good she could give to the world after she'd left it, and Mal had agreed with her wholeheartedly. The elfroot she so carefully cultivated were incredibly potent, and would have helped a lot of people, if it hadn't gone up in the magical flames created by rogue mages. Her remains is a painful reminder of how conflict and war always leads to regret.

The familiar crossroads comes into view when Mal finally gets through the bushes and ever green vegetation. Except that it's not really familiar at all in the ways that matter. 

All the stone is there. The grey shading of the cliffs, and the colours of the forest together with the brown, makes the lush grass stand out between the houses. But Mal had not expected the red tents creating a stark contrast with the otherwise smooth lines of this useful meeting place. 

Last it's the people. They're strangers, and not the familiar friends Mal are used to seeing here. 

The many soldiers walk with purpose. Their eyes are wide and alert while at the same time too tired. The few peasants in dirty garments stand with their shoulders slumped with deep fatigue. These are the only people Mal recognise, but only barely due to the unfamiliar destitute on well-known faces.

She's suddenly glad Effie couldn't come. It would have been incredibly hard for her to see this.

Saying goodbye to Effie was remarkably easy. She had a big smile and a pack of lunch for Mal to bring with her on her journey ready at the stables. Apparently she had guessed that Mal would leave immediately after talking to the Commander, and seemed happy about it. "You're more useful out there than here." is what she said, having already made up her mind about Mal's abilities of fighting despite seldom having witnessed it for herself. She's not wrong though.

And Mal left her there that afternoon. Riding on one of the very few horses the Inquisition has, but one that's obviously seen better days. A light pack of weapons and food strapped to its side.

Mal looks towards the small hill overlooking the larger campsite. It's a hill that used to shelter many mischievous teens with too little work on their hands. 

They'd used it as a hiding place as they overlooked the highway in wait for the perfect travelling targets. Countless rich merchants and travellers had gotten their petticoats ruined by a special mixture of bloodgrass grease and ram dung. 

While washing the concoction off the clothes clears the dirt, the smell of dung will never leave the unfortunate coat. It will forever give the impression of the wearer being a simple and unlucky ram farmer. The perfect revenge for bored teenagers angry and jealous at people in possession of money. 

Mal had loved it. She had been the one to give the teens the tip about the bloodgrass grease, and has never regretted it despite the Hinterlands becoming notorious for its ill-behaved children.

Now, the hill is the perfect place for the man Mal guess is Corporate Vale. Everyone can see him, while he can keep his hawk eyes on every single activity in this place. 

As Mal enters the clearing from a less used and only locally known side path, he immediately puts his eyes on her. She feels his gaze prickling on her shoulders with his silent demand of an explanation of who she is. 

Mal dismounts her horse. A grateful pair of hands hurriedly take the rains, and Mal thinks she might not see that horse again. She would have done something if it weren't for the fact that she's sure that the horse is needed wherever it's going. 

Nobody really notice her as she walks up to the Corporal. She hadn't expected the soldiers to make much note of her, as she's wearing more or less a worn uniform of a fighter in a newly formed group with no money to spend. It consists of leather patchwork with a few pieces of metal protecting her important bits, and a basic sword hangs at her side. 

The civilians here are different though. Mal had expected them to greet her, but they don't even seem to see her walking through. They're tired, and blind to the people inside the uniforms of the soldiers giving them protection. 

Corporate Vale looks much like the military man Mal expected. He has Commander Cullen's stance, his fatigued expression, and alert gaze. Not quite as tall, but he makes up for it with a rigid back. He lacks the eyes though. The expression that makes Mal believe in his honesty, despite his title.

"You must be Mal. The Commander sent word ahead." The voice is informal and sharp. A man with no time for small talk, and for that Mal is grateful. She'd rather not divulge her whole life to him, as some suspicious souls had demanded in the past. "Hello." she simply answers.

He stretch out a hand and Mal takes it in a short greeting. The hand is firm and calloused, much like Mal's own. "You're joining the group going after the mage and Templar camps. Well, you'll meet the rest of them at the medical tent with the Herald. It's by the small pond down there, hard to miss." 

"Anything you can tell me about the people we're going after?" the question is met with a small crocked smile and averted eyes, giving Mal the impression of irked resignation.

"They're fanatics. Fights like it too. They've all got it in their heads to take down the enemy no matter the cost to themselves, just like brainwashed children. No thoughts to the consequences they're causing to these normal folks here. Fucking stupid bastards they are." The Corporal answers with a sigh. An impulse makes Mal open her mouth to tell him that they both just joined a fanatical cult themselves, but think better of it before the words form on her tongue. 

She's in a strict military operation. Creators save her soul.

Corporate Vale rise a single eyebrow at her, a look of questioning humour angled in his gaze. "Have you ever played wicked grace?" he asks, and the question is so out of context that Mal is taken aback. 

She nods out a confirmation that yes, she has. It's the favourite pastime of most merchants she's met so far, but she answers more out of habit than an understanding of what it has to do with anything. Is he inviting her to play?

"You should stop. Your thoughts are too easy to read for you to have a chance at ever winning. While I see that the Inquisition doesn't have much going for it right now, we're not fanatics, and you should take care to remember that if you want to continue doing what is right." Well, shit. So this is the reason this man is put in charge over the refugees. Incredible insight into people's mind is a valuable asset.

She's dismissed with an impatient wave of a hand, hurrying her along to the healers tent. Leaving without further ado, she thinks Corporate Vale is right in one thing, which is that right now the important thing is to act within their conscience. She has Templars and mages to deal with.

\----------

"Varric!" the loud call escapes Mal as soon as she sets her eyes on the short and sturdy dwarf. "I'm glad to see you." and she is, as proved by a huge smile appearing on her face, stretched from ear to ear. She didn't know she had missed Varric, but she has to admit his crooked smile has managed to grow on her.

Varric is standing outside the healers tent, a number of patients on cots next to him. There's probably not enough room inside the canvas walls for everybody, though that hardly matters. It's sunshine and warm, and not a rainy cloud in sight. The ill patients will heal just as well out here as inside. At least until tonight before the cold sets in.

Varric looks haggard. There's a powerful stubble, borderline real beard, growing on his broad chin. Wrinkles are hugging his eyes. A sly grin with the hint of white teeth behind his lips is the only thing proving his joy of seeing Mal.

"Glad, huh?" Mal can almost see the irony dripping from his words. Mal feels her own mind beginning to work a bit harder in anticipation of the jab she's soon to receive. It's Varric after all. "Staying unconscious for days isn't the right way of treating someone, but I'll forgive you since you managed to stay alive. I wasn't sure you would after your stunt at the Temple." 

At Varric's words another person turns towards Mal. Solas is getting up from his crunched down position next to a soldier cradling his arm. He gives her a soft smile. The barest hint of an upward movement at the corner of his lips creating the perfect image of a truly gentile greeting.

However, the sharp sun hitting his naked scalp is blinding. She has a fleeting thought that they picked the wrong elf for the title of Herald bathing in Andraste's light.

"I was certain you died when I saw the lightning attack at the Temple, but your own spell saved your life." The light tone is enhanced by the inquisitive tilt to his head. "It was interesting seeing you do an incomplete transfiguration to stone. Usually, beginners make this type of mistake when learning the art, but in this case you put the miss-spell to practical use. You must be confident in your abilities, as any small error would have made you cause your own death." 

Mal's thinking that she has some practise in unintentional suicide when casting on her own body, so it's not really confidence but experience that is the true cause of her casting style. But she'll let him believe her a genius. There's no harm in that for sure. 

"What can I say. I don't like dying." Mal jests, as the only answer she's able to provide the questioning mage without telling him of her own immortality. 

So ignoring Solas, she opts to continue with what's important right now. "I was told to meet the people going after the Templar and mage camps. They're supposed to be here." 

Varric lets a small laugh escape him in obvious exasperation. "Makers balls Mal. Mahanon was worried sick about you when we had to leave for the Hinterlands and you hadn't woken up yet. At least you owe him to say hello." Mahanon worried about her? If Mal remember him right, he should be more worried about his new found title. 

Is it the saving of life stunt she did? Sometimes that has a big effect on people, though usually they just say thank you and get on with their lives, allowing Mal to do the same.

"Herald!" the surprisingly loud voice calls from Varric's mouth. And not a second later the familiar dalish coloured face pops out from a little distance away. Mal hadn't been able to see him past the cover of the tall bushes he's currently exiting, allowing him fairly good privacy even while out in the open air. 

But she can clearly see now the huge smile spreading as the Herald's eyes locks on her, making Mahanon look young and happy. It's creating a stark difference in the impression given by the dirty and worn armour he wears testifying to previous heavy action. He's still got the dalish trademarks on his clothing, which means he hasn't even gotten a new set of arms from his scrappy group of new followers. That, or he misses his home too much to give up the symbolic armour. 

And speaking of foolish followers, a fuming Cassandra walks out from the bushes right behind him. Face drawn in tight lines with long pacing strides supports her regal back. 

There is no doubt in Mal's mind that the new Herald is the cause of her silent anger. Her piercing glare at the religiously holy Herald makes that much clear. 

"MAL!" Mahanon's yell is even louder than Varric's call, and he's approaching her fast now. He's almost running across the uneven ground with his arms stretched wide. It dawns on Mal that he intends to hug her. 

When it finally and inevitably comes the hug is as fierce as Cassandras current fuming. All-consuming and possibly bone crushing. Though how his skinny arms got this strength she can only guess. 

As Mal's face is buried in dark hair, she can't help but smile. She's really glad he's alive and well. Despite his marks and title, Mal has realized by now that he's just a worried kid doing his best in a very bad situation. The true miracle in all this is that he's able to smile despite everything he must be going through.

But her good mood is also stemming from a different thought. She notes that his marked hand clutching her shoulder isn't doing anything to her body. It's not inconceivable that her faulty soul would react to the mark that has the power to affect the veil. But there's no pull, nor anything else uncomfortable going on inside of her. She feels normal. 

"You're alive, and ok. Standing even, should you be standing?" the question comes out the Herald's mouth in a flurry as soon as he release the lengthy hug. The words are backed up with his head bobbing up and down checking her for injuries. 

"I'm fine, your grace." Mal mumbles, rubbing her arms to get some feelings back into them. From her side vision she can see Varric, gleaming like he was witnessing a long lost family reunion. 

"I have a name you know. If you insist on risking your life for me, I'll see that you use it." At least someone here agrees with the ridiculous title of Herald, but it's a bit sad that Mahanon himself is the only one protesting the farce. Mal is sure he'll get lonely at this rate. "Just don't do that again. People dying for me is…too much to ask." 

His smile is almost gone now. Replaced by a hand on Mal's shoulder and a sad curve of the marked lips. Mal can't imagine away the worried look in his eyes, like she's prone to get herself killed. 

Well…he's not entirely wrong on that front.

But more importantly Mal thinks that he needs to get used to the idea of self-sacrifice. She hates it too, but the action has some merit. His hand is simply too valuable to prevent others from the honour of dying for the greater cause. "I'm just doing my duty." she answers.

"Mal is right. She's just doing what she has to. As her faith commands her to a higher purpose." Cassandra looks over at the taller elf now, talking as if she is stating the most obvious. To her it probably is, as she is a woman of unquestionable faith. The breastplate with the creepy eye is proof enough of her conviction. 

Mahanon has his back turned to the Templar. The animosity between them going both ways, as the new Herald refuse to agree with her words. "And it's my duty to stay. I can't just leave this place for the sake of talking to some upbeat nobles in Orlais. That's no way to help anyone." 

"If you can convince those nobles to send some extra pair of hands, or some needed supplies, then you better get going." Varric chips in, and Cassandra agrees with a single nod of her head. Mahanon just deepens his scowl, turning it towards the unsuspecting dwarf.

"Trusting nobles isn't going to lead us anywhere. The people here have lost their homes and everything they need to survive with it. I can't just leave on a small chance that we might get some help from some rich strangers who hasn't cared at all so far." The Herald continues to make a case for himself, but it's getting clear that he isn't convincing anybody.

And now, even Mal is starting to get pissed off at the young dalish's reluctance. 

If Mahanon can get some help to these refugees by talking to nobles, than that sure is better than anything he can do here on his own. Supplies and foot soldiers are what Mal's former neighbour's needs, not a singleton hero playing saviour to everybody.

"But if the Inquisition doesn't want to end up as an outlawed rag tag group of cultists, hunted by the people in charge of Thedas, you need to get the fickle nobles on our side. And your mark is a powerful convincer. You'll get their attention, and money with it in no time." Mal contributes, just after a thought enters her mind that getting herself involved in the discussion might not be a good idea. Getting into the feud between a Templar and a Herald could be bad for her future prospects, but oh well. Too late now.

"Rag tag and outlawed group, huh? Like the dalish?" Mahanon confronts Mal. She simply nods. It's the truth after all. The dalish is the perfect example of how not to deal with world politics. 

"Exactly like the dalish." Solas interrupts, drawing Mahanon's sharp defiant gaze onto himself. "The ignoring of nobles is what got the dalish in their current destitute position. My advice is not to draw on your people's way of thinking." Solas says, mirroring Mal's thoughts exactly. Though she would have been less harsh about saying it. Probably.

Mahanon draws back. It's not a gesture of defeat though, despite him being about to lose this argument. He still has that look of defiance portraying how he really feels about this. "You don't hold back at all, do you." he tells Solas before finally looking to Cassandra. The first time he's done that since Mal laid eyes on him today. 

"I'll go with you and greet your Chantry, and hear what they'll have to say, but I can tell you now that I'll refuse to grovel at those warmongering shems. I'll talk to them like equals." Cassandra nods her agreement, not betraying any other emotion except stern acceptance. Not even a hint of relief that really should have been there in Mal's opinion, considering Mahanon's stubbornness. 

Then the Herald looks back at Mal. A small smile cracking open his lips. One that she had not expected to see given the harsh criticism that had been dished out at his people, and that she had agreed to. "Alright you guys, I'll do as you say for now, but you better make it up to me. Keep these people safe in my stead." And at that Mal can't help smiling herself. 

Mahanon could have continued like a cross two year old clinging to his will. But instead, he gave in to reason. Maybe he isn't as immature as she'd first thought. 

She recognize her feeling of fondness for this young man quickly proving himself intelligent. As well as reasonable, quick thinking, self-confident, and kind. 

All of it in the span of two short confrontational conversation. Here, and at the Temple.

"I never thought I'd say that I'd like a dalish, but you're proving me wrong. I'll do what I can for these refugees, to this I swear." Mal stretch out a hand to confirm the oath, but he pulls her into a hug instead. Not as tight as the previous one, but somehow it feels fuller. "I know you will. Just…keep safe." he whispers this last part right as he release the arms he used to trap her movements.

"You too Varric. I know you're all the best suited people we've got to go after the mages, so you should know how tricky they can be. Suddenly they've killed you before you even know what's happened. At least, that's how my sister fights." Mal doesn't point out that Mahanon is the least experienced fighter amongst them by far, and as such is in no position to give them advice. It's kind of cute though. He reminds her of a worried little brother. 

"I'd rather fight rogue mages than talk to those nobles, so don't worry about us." Varric smirks, and puts a hand fondly on his deadly crossbow. Mal nods and agrees. 

At least she now knows who's going with her to deal with the mages. With just Varric and Solas in her group they'll be horribly outnumbered, but all three of them are excellent fighters. With the use of a bit of skill they'll get the jump on their enemy, and maybe with some luck they should be able to get out of it mostly unscathed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for warnings

Tracking the mages through the Hinterlands is easy. 

They leave the Crossroads in the direction of horsemaster Dennet and his farm, making good headway. Corporal Vale had a hunch that the mages are hauled up somewhere in the woods, and Mal is quickly able to confirm his suspicions. There are tracks leaving the main road going into the forest. From there the mages has had some trouble navigating the woods safely. Scorch marks are crisp against the bushes that used to block the trail forward, and crunchy ice is covering what used to be wet patches of mud and moss.

As much as their use of magic must have been useful, it's more like they're giving Mal and her companions a beacon to follow through the woods. So all in all, Mal thinks that what she's doing can't really be called tracking. It's more like following the breadcrumbs to the juicy treasure. 

The mage's solution to help get them through the thick forest is not that surprising though, as these people have lived their whole lives shut inside towers. Magic is all they know.

And so they're making progress towards Witchwood, which makes Varric joke incisively about witches hiding in Witchwood. 

Mal appreciates it. The jokes are funny, and she finally feels like she has the opportunity to enjoy Varric's good taste in humour without the smell of corpses burning her nose. Her laughs are loud even, and perfectly timed with Varric's bad puns and lacklustre knowledge of magic. 

And by the silence radiating from Solas, Mal is probably the only elf in their company that likes the humour, even when Varric starts his jabs of thinly veiled analogies of witches living in the Hinterlands. 

His hinting at Mal is barely concealed at all, but she has thick skin. A little teasing never hurt anybody.

"Witchwood, huh? Ferelden names are always inspired by real events. Any exciting stories from your adventures Mal?" Varric says, stressing the word wood. Mal reconsiders. Teasing might end up hurting somebody after all. Especially a dense bearded dwarf. 

Still, she opts for some stern words of warning before they get to bodily harm. It'll be Varric's first line of defence, whether he realize it or not. "I'm not a witch, and the only stories I have involves bloodied sharp pieces of metal."

"Ah, too bad." Varric concedes. Yet the glint in his eyes doesn't go away. Mal suspects he's only preparing for his next attack.

So in an effort to distract, Mal spends the rest of the day telling Varric about the real witch of the wilds. The betrayal the infamous witch suffered leading to the death of her beloved, and the horrifying vengeance that she bestowed in turn. How she became the witch praying on the bandits seeking shelter in southern Ferelden, and how every single Templar going after her suffered similar fates. After all, her powers to command magic from the Fade always exceeded every expectation. Even after all this time, no one has been able to handle her might.

Mal has met the woman. She's not sure how many times exactly, but it must have been at least twice. Both times the witch recognized Mal for who she was, and both times Mal got away as fast as she could. Only a fool would do otherwise.

But she doesn't mention her own experiences to Varric, opting to tell the common folk story instead. And when it finally gets dark they find a tiny, well-hidden clearing to set up camp.

They've made a lot of progress already and most likely they'll find the mages tomorrow, early rather than later. So they decide to get a good night's rest now, before the inevitable confrontation. A small cliff is sheltering them on one side, while the forest bushes are on the other. 

It doesn't give them much in terms of seeing what's out there themselves, but at least an enemy will have a hard time spotting them in turn. It's as good as it's going to get out here, and not to mention cosy.

While eating some dried unidentified food they brought for supplies, Varric looks curiously at both Mal and Solas. 

Solas has stayed quiet so far, not joining in Mal's and Varric's conversations. Frankly, Mal sometimes forgot about him entirely more than once today. He sure is a quiet walker. 

"So if I get this right, you're both elves who don't like the dalish, right? That's unusual, and to find two of you at the same time is practically unheard of." The question comes out as an off handed comment between the full sized bites, though Mal has a sneaking suspicion that this is something Varric has wondered about all day. He looks expectant.

However, while Varric asks, Mal's unpacking her tent. Her and Solas are getting ready to set up the cloth for the night. Currently, her thoughts are more preoccupied with how cold it's going to get tonight rather than how to explain her hatred of dalish culture and beliefs. Lighting a fire is out of the question for the night, so they'll have to make due with cots, tents and their own body heat.

However, it's not like she has a good excuse to not satiate Varric's curiosity by not answering. Explaining her views has always been a bit difficult for her, but unfortunately necessary as she can seldom hold her tongue when the dalish get into the conversations.

Mal shrugs. "You're a surface dwarf Varric. Do you like Ozamar and their politics?" she asks. He might, which would ruin her point, but most dwarves Mal has met on the surface is usually exasperated with their counterparts living beneath the stone. Some impractical piece of culture ruffling their beards, though most still show respect to the old ways. 

They're like teenagers complaining about their parents strict curfew, but going home before dark anyway. Mal can play on the same notions with her animosity towards the dalish culture. It has worked more than once, though it's not the entire truth behind her feelings.

"We're not talking about my cultural issues right now, even though I could go on about that for days. But I take the hint Mal. I won't dig into something that you obviously don't want to talk about. 

But I'd rather you talk to me about the dalish, instead of ending up spitting words at our Herald. You've got your heart in the right place, but could use some help with your social skills." Mal's taken aback. A glance over her shoulder reveals Varric serious glare, with not even a hint of the persistent teasing he's displayed all day. 

He must be worried about their young Herald, to risk offending Mal to this extent.

And rightly so, Mal thinks. Mahanon has a lot to deal with without having Mal's ideas on his plate as well.

"The dalish cling to a past the doesn't exist. The traditions they hold so dear to themselves are nothing more than misunderstood pieces of history, not embodying what they claim to regard." Solas interrupts while helping Mal tie up the canvas of their tent.

Looking at him Mal can't help but smile a little. She agrees completely with his words. The stories of things that never happened, and the dalish glorification of false self-proclaimed Gods turned tyrants is unforgiving. 

He meets her eyes. There's a small pause of contemplation before he continues. "If they truly wish to reclaim their history, they need to search for answers. Question their own knowledge while broadening their minds. They fail to do this, and therefore they will never reach the truth about the glory of their past." Solas explains to Varric, though it is _her_ that he's looking at. Carefully mapping out her reaction, like he's ready to make judgment of who she is based on what he sees. 

And Mal is ready to disappoint. Faulty traditions, and glory of history? The Dread Wolf shit on his naked toes, as he deserves no less.

"The best part about the dalish is that they don't remember their own past. The glory of their history is worth less than three bags of hart dung. I'll never fault the dalish for the failure of digging their shitty culture up from its grave." Mal spits out the words in anger. 

Mal had believed Solas thought like her. Criticising the dalish for their focus on the past. Looking towards a better future for their people, instead of talking about the grandeur of what used to be like any other repetitive mind-numbing elf. She was wrong.

Mal has forgotten about the unpacked tent in her hands, and is instead looking at her new source of disappointment. He's not betraying any emotion except a single eyebrow raised in curiosity. Though that is enough for Mal. The memories of her slavery, living a life of death, horror, and fear. It angers her. 

There was no way out for people like her, living in a society that didn't care. While the humans of today are racist and cruel, they at least pretend to give a shit. They have charities for the poor, and a chantry that promotes kindness to all. The elves of the past didn't even pretend to be anything but cruel when they ruled the world. Mal remembers it all vividly.

"Ah. I see." The short words are spoken silently, like Solas is talking to himself as he finish putting up the neglected tent all by himself. It sounds like a reprimand to Mal. Like _she's_ the one who doesn't understand. 

But to her, Solas is just another elf with a stick up his arse who refuse to listen when his core beliefs are questioned, and doesn't care if the criticism is justified. He's just another one who completely disregards everybody else that points out the flaws in his logic. 

He's two-faced. Chastising the dalish for being closed-minded, when he behaves the exact same way. 

"Ok, so no talking about elves." Varric says, clearly looking to mediate the sour mood between the two companions he's forced to spend the night with. "Want to hear the story about the nug in the Ozamar proving ring? It's a classic, and for good reason." 

So instead of seething in anger while looking at Solas's perfectly blank expression, Mal turns away. 

She nods to Varric, eager for him to tell the story. It doesn't matter that she's heard it before, as a change of topic is needed. Her sharp disappointment in Solas hit her stronger than she had expected. She had thought of him as another elven apostate like her. Unmarked, and not stuck in the cities or circles. While the difference between the way they choose to live their lives are great, at least there was something that bound them together. After all, there are few people at all that can claim any similarity to Mal. And now, yet again there's no one sharing Mal's beliefs. 

So she encourage Varric's mindless talk to have some time to get over it before bed, not wanting to enter the Fade with an angry mind. 

And besides, hearing about a paragon getting his arse kicked by a nug is always hilarious, no matter how many times she's heard it before. Varric is a good story teller. Proved beyond doubt as the evening carries itself into the night. Eventually she manages to get her disappointment out of her system, as she laughs at the uncanny dumb luck of nugs as they're pushed against a wall facing their death.

\-----------

They split the night into three parts. One to stay awake during each period of time, while the other two sleeps. Mal takes the first shift while Solas takes the last. That leaves Varric for the middle shift, so while the moons are still high up in the dark night sky, Mal wakes Varric for his turn. He's grouchy, scratching his ever growing beard and blinks unhappily at Mal, but gets up nonetheless. 

Mal is careful not to annoy her new friend in her eagerness for him to hurry up, but is grateful when she can finally take his place on his cot. It's warm. Soothing her cold body like a lullaby. Solas hasn't moved from his spot despite the activity behind his back, but even he lets off some gentile heat for Mal's happy enjoyment.

Mal relaxes enough to quickly enter the Fade. Just like she normally does when eager for the bliss of her dreams to whisk her away from Thedas.

Opening her eyes she sees what she expects to see. The same image of the Fade that has greeted her for years now that she's lived in the Hinterlands. The lush green trees and forest reflecting the flora in the area as it has been for a very long time. The memories of leaves, bark, moss and stone painting the Fade, creating a perfect image of nature's serenity. 

It's one of the reasons Mal settled here in the first place. This far south has had little conflict through the times, and as such fewer demons has had the opportunity to affect the calm Fade. It's beautiful. Something that the real world of Thedas can't hope to achieve, no matter how much it might try. 

But before she gets to sink into the feeling of beauty, she starts to feel a prickling at the back of her head. A dreaded feeling sink into her stomach, and already a suspicion is forming in her mind. 

Solas. Turning around she sees that he's already staring at her from his lounged position next to a big pond. 

A pond with birds and fish moving across the surface of the water in an attempt to outplay each other. Synergy of instincts between the animals creates an intriguing dance, better than any ballerina in the grand palaces of Orlais.

It's captivating. A perfect image, except for the centre piece of a stuck up elf, though that is hardly the Fade's fault. Solas simply chose a good spot to spend the night. He chose _her_ spot.

He's smiling now. The same gentile curve of his lips that Mal recognise as his signature greeting. She feels her own tugging of her lips, though in a completely different direction than up. He's a dreamer. Like Mal he's conscious within the Fade, aware and awake with power to affect it to his own will. 

He looks comfortable. Not moving from his relaxed position, nor does it look like there's any tension in his limbs. Completely unlike Mal, who's annoyance is rapidly rising. She doesn't like her piece of the Fade to be invaded by others, least of all a dreamer with bad opinions.

"Hello. I didn't expect you here." he says pleasantly. Like Mal is a long-time friend he had missed in absence, instead of an angry mage currently crossing her arms and making faces. He's not sane.

"Fuck. I don't want you here either." The accusation rolls out her mouth, like Solas is at fault of them being here together. Obviously it's not. They're sleeping not a fingerbreadth away from each other in their tent, so of course they're going to meet here. One of the nifty side effects of dreamers sleeping this close together.

"It's beautiful." he continues, looking over Mal's pond. Completely ignoring her unreasonable comment. 

Solas looks captivated by the playful image of the spirits re-enacting the bird hunting the unfortunate fish. Just like Mal has been so many times before.

"You're from the Hinterlands. Is this the reason you chose to live here?" he says, gesturing towards the scenery surrounding them both. Still completely ignoring Mal's seething, though in his defence he's not currently looking at her display of anger. Instead he's choosing to continue to rest his eyes on the dance at the blue pond, showing Mal the back of his bald head.

She doesn't answer. Opting to stop and think for a moment. Reason seeps back into her muddled mind after her initial shock. The Fade always has this effect on her, reinforcing her emotions to higher levels. But anger and animosity isn't something she should be feeling in this paradise. It would ruin it. 

And besides, there is no rational reason for her to show this animosity towards the apostate. Other than him being a dick that is, but that's beside the point.

Looking beyond his ignorance of the history of elves, they're on the same side. They'll even be fighting together tomorrow, and as Mal is a front line warrior, she'll have to trust him to give her his best support. 

Remembering the fights at the Temple she knows he can be brilliant. He's a good mage, and knows to use his spells wisely, which is the most important part of the support role. She just has to manage not to ruin it for herself by making him too angry with her.

"Yeah. I love it here." She answers after a long pause, crossing her arms in front of herself and leaning back. She doesn't want to appear too aggressive anymore. Just play along with the small talk, and don't mention elves. They can get through this without any more incidents. She just has to wait until Varric wakes up Solas and she can get her small paradise for herself.

"I owe you an apology." Solas continues on a completely different note.

Though Solas is still turned away from Mal, she has no trouble hearing his words. The Fade is tricky like that sometimes. Solas seems completely at ease with it, even more than Mal with her long life spent here every night.

She feels unease tightening in her stomach. "For what?" she asks. 

An apology is not something she expected. An insulting comment defending his views, or perhaps a thinly veiled accusation of her behaving like a child would have been fitting. Not an apology. But then, he has hardly behaved sane so far. His serenity, calm and forgiving attitude isn't normal when coupled with the stick he got lodged in his arse.

"I had not thought your issues with the dalish came from personal experience as a member of their culture. It was wrong of me to think you ignorant of the matter of which you spoke." His soft words sink into her mind like a boulder. Feeling the implications of them, her face drain of colour. 

Once, Mal saw a stone golem fling a deepcrawler into a wall. The animal had managed to sneak up on the stone construct in an attempt at steeling from the nug farm it was guarding. She feels like that poor animal now. Disoriented, and eager to get away, having stumbled into something she regrets.

She remembers now how she looks in the Fade, having forgotten that tiny but significant fact for the past hundred years or so. There are few mirrors in this place.

Her vallaslin. She had gotten rid of it as soon as possible after Elvhenan fell, but it was too late for her appearance in the Fade. She grew up with the marks, and now she identifies herself with them, and the Fade reflects that image. She's never been able to change it. Creators know, she has tried.

"Will you forgive me?" he asks. Sad eyes now turned to Mal. Regret is one of the first real emotions Mal has ever been able to read on that face. Should she trust it? She doesn't like him looking at this part of her. It's intimate. She feels horribly exposed.

"Tell me, what do you think you know?" Mal still has the upper hand here. He's working on assumptions. Most likely he thinks of her as a dalish having cast away her culture for personal reasons, hence the missing vallaslin in the real world.

Solas is turning around completely now. Opting to sit on the ground with his legs crossed in front of him. A slight slouch of his shoulders as he regards Mal with those sad eyes. Sharp yet full of regret. "I know what those marks used to mean. I'm sorry that you had them." Mal draws in a sharp breath. Not understanding what's going on at all. 

Who is this guy, and what does he think he knows? He's implying he knows they were slave marks, but that's impossible. That knowledge is lost.

"An offering to the gods." her hard comment leaves her mouth without hesitation. Relaying on the misgivings of the dalish to fake her ignorance at Solas, but she knows she's not good at this. Corporal Vale even said it, to not attempt gambling as her feelings are displayed on her sleeve. And her voice has cracks in it. Even she can hear it breaking up the words, and completely ruining the impression she wants to give Solas of confidence. 

She's not calm at all. There's a small torrent of emotions within her, and she can't for the life of herself keep them all inside. Damn the face tattoo she's been forced to carry. A mask planted on her face against her will, causing her pain even now, millennia after the fact.

Solas tilts his head to the side, studying her like he's contemplating how to break her in the most gentile way he knows. At least, that's what it feels like he's doing anyway. It's a look of pity she recognise as she has carried it herself often enough.

"They're slave marks. But you already know that." holy crap. Mal feels her lungs tighten, making her breathing laboured. Her mind pulls at her, as forbidden thoughts of her past screams for her attention.

But instead of allowing those thoughts to be noticed, she focuses on the blasted dreamer in front of her eyes. Pushing her entire mind to pay attention to Solas's shitty personality.

"You suck. Must piss off a lot of people. Is that why you wander alone?" Even a five year old would have had better lines than the ones she just spat out, Mal knows. Yet the harsh words full of venom is out of her mouth even before she gets a chance to think it through. She panics as she notice her chest constraining, and a ball of pain taking the place of her beating heart.

She knows what that pain means. It's a ball of pressure. Starting soft but quickly building until it becomes unbearable.

Edging Solas into a fight using childish bating isn't smart, but Mal is way past acting intelligent. The tight ball of pain is threatening to burst, and Mal knows that once it does there is no way to salvage herself. A fight is better than that. Anything is better than that.

The kind face Solas is showing is aggravating. She wish she could just punch the smile off his face. His consideration is not what she needs right now. Can't he just behave like the arse he is, so she can focus on that instead of what's happening inside herself? 

Her face…she wish she could scrape it clean.

She tries to get her emotions under control by acting on the one feeling that almost never fails. Her anger. She needs him to show her his own fury. Give her something to go on so that she can continue to nurture her failing anger. It's her only salvation. 

Instead he's just sitting there. Head cocked to the side and palms up. Like a dog showing its stomach as a peace offering, attempting to break up a fight. The exact opposite of what Mal now _needs_. 

"What do you know, fantasising about the elves of the past, but your perfect image doesn't exist. There's no happy joy to be found in those ruins." She doesn't give up though. If she can find the right words she might just manage to piss him off enough for him to lose his composure. 

"I never claimed there was. I said the elves were glorious, though grandeur can also contain great horror. Those marks you bear is a part of that, and should not be forgotten as the perverse practise it represented." Those words don't help at all. The images is taking over her mind, and soon she'll break. Soon it'll be too late for anger, as it won't have any space left to exist once the sadness takes over her body. 

Solas continues his charade, but at this point Mal just wants him to stop. "It's all part of the history of who we are, and we all deserve as well as have a duty to remember." Mal feels her lips tighten, and her chest is curling into itself as she's confronted by Solas's words. "You're wrong." she whispers. 

Her voice is failing her now. But nothing she has ever seen from the elven culture has led to anything good. 

"I'm not. Though I do not fault you for your opinions on this. You have my greatest sympathy." He's walking closer to her now, having gotten up from his lazy position on the mossy green ground. Mal doesn't move away from his approach, feeling her overwhelming sadness as the thoughts of her fate crush her full force. 

His last words are right. She deserves sympathy for what she went through, but at the same time his sympathy is causing havoc inside herself. Her knees threaten to crumble under the now too heavy burden of her body. And finally, she folds.

He knows she carries the marks of a slave. Acting with great regret at her fate of having them, but he can't possibly know that she also lived the life these marks represent. So he can't possibly understand. No one does anymore, and no one has for millennia. 

She can't pretend that it hasn't been lonely. The memories of the past is gone from most of Thedas, but being the sole person who remembers the pain is a heavy burden. Doesn't matter how much she wants her own memories whisked away, her never ending life just won't let her forget.

Solas is standing in front of her now, an arm coming up to rub at her cheek. Drawing his hand back Mal can see that it's wet. Her own tears staining his fingers. When did that happen? 

"I wish I could remove the marks for you here in the Fade, but alas that's outside of my powers." he carries an expression of pity. His mouth curves down, and his eyebrows furrow into a gentile expression of comfort. An attempt at making her feel better than the pile of emotional mess that is the current Mal.

Creators. She feels her face crunch up, and her vision is getting blurry. The pain in the chest burst, and the emotions runs wild around in her body. Damn it all! 

Almost collapsing in on herself, Mal clutch an arm to her chest, right where the pain is strongest. She's already hearing the uncontrollable wheezing of her laboured breath coming out in short bursts, as her air supply refuse to listen to reason.

She needs time. It will go away after a little while. The pain just needs to run its course, and she'll get herself under control once more. She has a wealth of experience with this. By gods it's painful though.

Then she feels arms around her crunched down form. A hand coming up to stroke her hair. She hadn't noticed Solas kneeling in front of her, but he had, and now he's embracing her crumbled form in an attempt at consoling her emotions.

It's working. The sobs are slowly becoming fewer, and the pain is starting to dissipate. Like a tight ball of fire suddenly getting some release from the pressure surrounding it. The hand on her head helps focus on freeing herself from the oppressive torrent inside her body. 

Mal's own rational thoughts are returning now. She feels the hand at her back moving in lazy circles, yet she can't see much except the grey fabric of Solas's shirt. She's practically leaning into him. Letting him support her as she focus on herself. 

Slowly, a different feeling starts spreading through her body, as she realize what just happened. The pain is almost gone now, and her lungs start to listen to her rational mind. She can think. And with it comes dread, purging her of the last remnants of pain and sadness.

She's a battle hardened woman, slayer of darkspawn and demons alike, with an incredible body count. Yet, she's also a huge embarrassment. 

Collapsing into incontrollable sobs due to her own lack of ability in directing her own emotions…it's humiliating. She's acting like an inexperienced teenager after her first heartbreak. And right in front of Solas. Her opinionated enemy of minds.

She moves away, and thankfully Solas complies. Giving her space now that she's regained enough control. Though now in the face of reality she doesn't know which she'd prefer, the pain of her chest bursting, or her current dread of feeling like a fledgling mage that just set her own clothing on fire in public. 

Creators. If looks could kill Solas is doing a good job of it. He's staring at Mal with comfort and pity in his eyes. She wish she could just dissipate. Like she was an actual part of the Fade and could just will herself to disappear.

Mal gets up. Standing on the moss and stone she tries her best to straighten her shoulders and wipe her face from tears and snot. If the Fade refuse her silent request to swallow her whole, then at the very least she'll refuse any more pity. She doesn't need it. And definitely she doesn't want it. 

When is Varric finishing his shift anyway? She'd appreciate a timely rescue right about now.

Damage control. It's all Mal can do now. Digging her fingernails into her palms to focus, she tries to fight down her blush uselessly invading her face. She is certain that the stark contrast between her dark vallaslin, and red blushing is creating a horrible cluster-fuck of colours, and she'd rather not have to think about that as she deals with the mage in front of her. 

"This usually doesn't happen." she starts, the raw tone in her voice evident from the crying she just did earlier. "It's the reminder of my marks. It…can set it off." she doesn't know exactly where she's going with this, but she doesn't want him to think she can't be trusted to fight tomorrow. She's fine. A few chinks doesn't mean she's broken.

Solas is currently trying to avoid meeting her eyes. Oh please, don't get embarrassed as well Solas, it's contagious, only reinforcing Mal's own troubles. 

"I'm glad. And I hope that in time you'll recover completely." the words come out with a light spring. Like Mal is some sick child that needs the reassurance. She's not. Not in the least, though it won't do to try and convince him of that. Not after what she just did.

"So I don't think it's necessary for you to tell Varric, nor Commander Cullen. It won't stand in the way of my work for the Inquisition." Clearing out her throat of mucus she tries to sound professional. Like one of the diplomats she's had the misfortune to witness when she got mixed up with some political play a long time ago. They managed to look trustworthy with their big words and complicated gesticulation, even though Mal knew they talked bullshit.

Solas regards her for a bit, making Mal feel like an animal on display parading in front of her audience. "You have my word. I will not mention this to anyone." He assures Mal with a slight nod. 

Now, this is a part Mal hadn't thought about. Feeling her horror and embarrassment growing, she thinks about what Solas just promised. She has the word of a stranger that he won't tell everybody and their grandmother about Mal's soundness of mind. Not to mention the vallaslin covering her face. Solas must yet think she used to be dalish, but Mal doesn't even want this misconception to come out. She'd rather just avoid any and all reminders of her damned marks.

Unfortunately, it's not really his problem whether she trusts him or not. The consequences of this is all on her, as it's her future on the line. She's no fool. His display of comfort just moments ago does not mean he's her friend. Probably he thinks of this as an opportunity more than anything. 

"I…your word is appreciated," Mal begins, not knowing how to end her sentence. How does one tell someone in polite terms that their word is worth less than foot fungus? Mal gets the feeling that Solas understands though. He's fairly smart. 

He regards her with something akin to approval, with his head tilted down and a joyful gaze as he's thinking of a reply. Then his eyes shift to the treeline next to their clearing, the tall trees painting the moss with their leaves filtering the light. Whatever is going on in his head is impossible to guess at.

"I believe this is an excellent opportunity." The wrinkles around his eyes grow in number, becoming more prominent as joy appears on the rest of his expression. With his regal stance he looks just like a scholar that has figured out a particularly hard question. There is pride, akin to his name.

"I believe we're both in the need of allies." Solas starts slowly, waiting on Mal to catch on. But the question mark appearing in her mind must be noticeable, because it doesn't take long before Solas opens his mouth to elaborate. "We're both lone apostates in the middle of a religious organisation. Furthermore, it's a religion that has a history of being distrustful of magic. It would be a comfort to have a friend were we both need one." 

But this explanation still doesn't really do it for Mal. The friendship he mentioned must be a euphemism for a favour in return for his silence. 

Though…Mal can't say no to this. It's a good compromise. In fact, it's the closes thing she's going to get considering her need to stay within the Inquisition's good graces.

"Alright." she looks Solas square in the face, hoping she doesn't look or sound as terrified as she feels under his power. 

Then he breaks out into a genuine smile. Teeth showing and eyes turning into small slits. The true look of a scholar when his theory is proved right, or a kid who received a sweet roll from his parents for his birthday. At least Solas has a good grasp of their vulnerable situation, being in an organisation that's going to turn full cultist on them soon enough. 

So she smiles back. Her best attempt at showing her willingness for truce, and an effort to get to know someone she can't stand for the sake of practicality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; contains detailed descriptions of a panic attack.


	8. Chapter 8

Varric and Mal is woken up by Solas. Mal is sorry for being ripped out from her world in the Fade, one that she got to enjoy alone for a few hours after Solas left. The white canvas above her head greets her with filtered sunlight, and a grumbling Varric nudges her side. 

She had managed to curl around the dwarf during the night, and it's not surprising. He's warm. Managing to produce a whole lot more heat for Mal than she could make for herself.

Outside they're greeted by a cold breakfast. Solas has been considerate of their audibly grumpy morning stomachs, even though he hardly eats much himself. It's while they're eating that Mal decide to break the latest news to Varric, seeing as he absolutely should know the condition of his soon to be fighting companions.

"Solas and I are now friends." Mal says between her bites at the cold and salted ram meet. The words are muddled by the hard chunks of food that refuse to yield to her teeth, but Varric gets the point. She's sure he's heard worse butchered pronunciations to bother protesting her lack of manners.

Looking over at Mal he raise a straight eyebrow. His trouble believing in this quick and unprovoked peace between his two pointy eared companions plain to see. It was only last night they fumed at each other. Or, at least Mal was fuming, while Solas more or less ignored her. That's all in the past now though. "When did you- wait. It's some sort of Fade stuff I'm not privy to, isn't it." 

"Yep."

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you don't sound too happy about it." Varric points out, and she isn't. Apart from her breakdown and subsequent blackmail, making up with Solas is fine. But she still likes her privacy in her dreams. It's slowly dawning on her that she won't get that perk for as long as she has to spend time doing missions with the other apostate. Maybe they'll even meet in the Fade at Haven, as the small village doesn't offer them much opportunity to get the required distance for dreamers to avoid meeting one another.

Looking up from her breakfast to give Varric a long stare, she gives her reply. "Try having a sudden and unexpected invasion of your dreams Varric, and see how that is." 

He just smirks when his mouth allows the tilt of his lips between his bites. "I don't dream." The dry comment is clear in its accusation. Slow words with barely contain laughter pronouncing every syllable as if she's an idiot. And it's deserved. Mal had conveniently forgotten that tiny fact about dwarfs. 

But in her defence, it was only for a moment.

"To be fair, I fell asleep first. Technically _you_ were the one to appear in _my_ dream." Solas interrupts, and there is a slight smirk on his lips too. Like correcting Mal is something he and Varric enjoys together.

Knowing Mal's luck this is a bonding moment between the know-it-all and the joker dwarf, as they've both found a common hobby. The first mark of a long friendship between the two at Mal's expense.

"And I didn't see you minding too much last night." Solas continues, and Mal sighs. He's right. Once they clasped their hand together with joy and giggles in their agreement of friendship, they explored the little Fade paradise in each other's company. Talking about the reflections of the Fade, and how it chose which parts of Thedas to imitate. Mal learned a lot from him. 

Varric gets up and stretches his stiff shoulders before he reach for Bianca, his terrifying Crossbow. He gives it a fond smile full of warmth and a good pat before strapping it onto his back, as if looking forward to get to use it. "Good. I was starting to wonder how I would prevent myself from dying in the oncoming fight. With two partners that don't get along, I wasn't looking forward to my chances." 

His relief is palatable. He's probably not even joking when claiming to be worried. Internal feuds are horrible for fighting synergy, Mal knows that as much as anyone else.

\--------

The mages are held up in a cave.

The area is filled with scorched tree stumps. The mages must have burnt down the forest in an attempt at giving their sentries better vision. Mal knows about the cave in there, as she has used it herself. Looking back some 20 years she can't help but think of the irony of how she first came across the cave. Running from Templars wanting to kill her, the safety of this maze made of rock provided an excellent hiding place. It was also the start of her life in the Hinterlands with Effie. 

But the mages utterly fail their attempt at hiding. Though Mal isn't quick to judge them this time. It's soon becoming clear that this straight forward idea of theirs is working. Even a four year old could have conjured up this plan, but it doesn't change the fact that Mal, Varric and Solas is forced to stop some distance away to keep from being seen by the people outside. The lack of trees are providing the mages safety from hidden attacks.

So the three of them crunch down on the outskirts of the burned clearing. Keeping themselves hidden from the preoccupied fighting forces in front of the cave. 

Surprisingly it's a clusterfuck. 

There is a full blown kill or be killed fight. And unlike a usual army versus army battle, it's quiet. No swords, and no shields hitting each other creating the all too familiar clang of battle tunes. 

Mal feels like an idiot. She has to fight hard to resist the urge to slap her own forehead due to her own short sightedness, consoling herself that Varric and Solas is at least at her own level of stupidity. 

The mages are horrible at keeping themselves hidden from pursuers, as has been made painfully obvious, but it's not just Mal and her companions that are hunting them. The Templars, as much as they are bloodthirsty for arcane people, have more than enough experience tracking mages. And even without the help of phylacteries, this hunt should have been child's play for the specialized prison guards. 

The result is clear from the ensuing battle in the shadowed clearing. The Templars must have thought like the Inquisition trio, in that they would hit the mages after a good night's rest. 

They still managed to get here earlier than Mal and her crew, but not by much. 

Mal focus on the fight and opts to pounder on her lack of foresight for another time. She can only see two bodies lying on the ground, unmoving. They're both mages, and Mal's guessing they were killed in the first attack. This skirmish hasn't gone on for long. 

The fight is more like dancing with its participants manoeuvring around one another. A Templar lunge towards a mage, and the mage in turn shifts away to avoid getting hit. Both sides are using all the tricks and tactics in their arsenal, doing their absolute best to both survive and dispose of one another. 

The mages mostly stay back, trying to use their spells to keep the Templars at a distance. While the Templars try to get close, dispelling the magic, and sometimes trying for a full on purge when they think the mages are within range. 

More than once the flurry of enchanted mage's robes have just barely managed to escape the anti-magic abilities of their fiend. Narrowly missing the fate of death awaiting a helpless drained mage at the hands of a vengeful Templar. 

Mal can't help but sympathise with the mages for a moment. Templars makes for a horrible way to die. Life feels like it's being forcefully ripped out from the mage with all the magical energy drained, and the connection to the Fade, very much a part of who mages are, cut off. It leaves an empty husk of a person for the few moments before the slaughter. It's vile. Yet, if a mage has to be killed it's the preferred method by anyone who knows what they're doing, seeing as it's extremely effective. 

Varric sneaks up to Mal's side. His nimble feet doing him justice as Mal can't hear him at all stepping on the twigs and dry leaves. She can see him though. Quite easily. "We can just wait for the Templars and mages to kill each other off. Make it easier for us afterwards." The words coming out as a whisper in Mal's ear, and she nods. 

She had the same thought. Make the Templars and mages fight it out themselves, and the three of them can pick off the leftover scraps after. It should be easy. And even if the Templars win it's not like they have any qualms about letting them go alive---

"No!" there's a scream pleading from inside the cave. The sound echoing through the stone maze and to Mal's ears.

She whisk her head around. Her heart starting to beat in a faster flurry. A young woman's voice, probably too young to join in the fight outside is yelling out her panic. But right after comes another sound, this time a horrible loud roar. Solas tense from behind her back, and she feels her own body warning her of danger. 

A demon. That ferocious deep roar is tearing its way through a throat that's not quite yet got a full demons vocal cords. The sound is guttural, and familiar. 

Mal will never forget the way a mage transforms to a full demon, and the sound alone is enough to make her realize what's going on inside the cave.

The roar is filled with rage. And sure enough, only moments later a cone of fire shoots out in a fury from the entrance of the cave, leaving the scorched ground outside in flames. No one is hit. Though a heartbeat later a Templar fall to a mages blood poisoning spell, distracted by the consuming flames. His scream echoes on the mountain cliffs as his blood literally boils in his veins. It's only for a moment though. His body soon gives out.

The rage demon leaves the dark cave. The flames of its body lighting up the grey walls. It's huge. A twisted form that was once a person now quickly consumed by the raging flames of the demons magic. 

It's rushing forwards. Going for the people fighting in the clearing. Miraculously Mal thinks, as it would have been terrible if the blood thirsty demon went for the ones already in the cave. The people hiding inside are most likely ones who's not fit to fight, and would not have been able to defend themselves against the fury filled flames.

The demon creates a whole new dimension to the ongoing dance of death. Both the Templars and mages are too busy trying to kill each other and stay alive to properly deal with the demon themselves. Probably some of them are even hoping that their enemy will be the next target of the deadly attacks. 

It's chaos. Too many enemies and too many dangers for the fight to continue. Mal knows that it won't take long before it's more or less over, and they should get in and finish off the last scraps. As it looks right now those scraps are going to involve the demon, and that won't be as easy as she had hoped.

But then a teen in full robes runs out of the cave. Brown eyes are locked on the demon, with an expression of pained frenzy on her face. "Joshua! Please, come back to me." 

Mal recognise the voice as the girl who screamed before, and gets a gut wrenching feeling as the older girl scrambles forward on the flaming uneven ground. Her eyes are fixed on the creature, unseeing to anything else in the chaotic clearing. There can't be a rational thought left in her young mind.

And then the demon brings its attention to the girl and smiles. Small dark eyes looking at her in gleeful recognition. 

"Be grateful little girl. The deal to protect you has been struck." the voice has only malice left. Mal can already see that the cruel realization of reality is seeping into the older girl's mind. Streaks of tears are running down her face. Her friend is forever gone. His soul is consumed by rage, and has ceased to exist. 

An older Templar, sweat pouring down his face, and rage filling his expression locks his gaze on the robed girl. He raise his sword. Mouth already speaking the words triggering his magic purge. 

Right before the Templar activates his ability the girl falls to her knees. Shock of loss already steeling the strength to keep her standing, but the magic purge from the Templar hits her full force a moment later. The rest of her falls in a heap on the ground. Like a sack of flour. 

The Templar takes hurried steps forward, bringing his sword straight up like it's an executioners axe. And this could have been an execution for what is inevitably about to happen. 

Mal feels Varric at her side, quickly raising Bianca to take aim at the Templar. She doesn't stop him. She should, with Varric about to reveal their presence too early, but what she's about to witness is not right. Children don't deserve to be killed in cold blood, no matter their mistake.

But before Varric gets his shot the girl suddenly flickers out of her spot. Only blackened ground is left showing the signs of where she used to lay helpless a moment before. 

She appears at the other side of the clearing, well away from the assaulting Templar. Her eyes are almost bulging out of their sockets with her startled look. Eyes that don't leave the Templar. 

Then a loud shrill comes out of her mouth. Lips opening wider than Mal knows is possible. A cone of ice burst out of her stretched out hands and cuts through the battle. The blue bolt slice through a fleeting arm of a fellow mage before ending up in the chest of the assaulting Templar. 

His body collapse instantly, and the echoing sound of metal hitting stone signals his death.


	9. Chapter 9

The teen has become a demon of despair. Creating bolts of ice and attacking anyone on the field of battle, mage and Templars alike. 

Loud shrills cut through the air from the demons mouth, and is coupled with a levitating form. A body that is quickly transformed to the twisted small shape that make the demons usual appearance. 

Mal turn to Varric. He still has his crossbow out and ready to shoot, but it's no longer aiming at anything but the ground. She sees a pained expression of shock as he stares at the demon, formerly the girl he was trying to protect. 

"You need to shoot the demon Varric, or it'll get away." Mal whispers, though between the loud shrill and roar from both the demons the need to be quiet isn't as prevalent as before. "The despair demon usually runs away from attacks. I can't get close to it, but your bolt can." Varric's eyes shift to look at Mal. She can see the cruel comprehension forming in his mind. The girl is gone, and he nods.

Lifting his crossbow he takes careful aim at the small shape. A moment later a bolt shoots out with accuracy, and Mal hears the clank of Bianca's mechanism right before the despair demon howls in pain. The bolt lodged itself into its skull, but the demon isn't dead. 

"Aim for the heart. It's weakest there." Mal says quickly. The demon is moving away from them already in an attempt to run. But Varric has this. There's no way he'll fail his second shot.

Turning her attention back to the battle, Mal sees that it's going as expected. The rage demon is wreaking havoc wherever it goes, leaving burning bodies in its wake. 

There's only a few mages and Templars left standing. They're all too preoccupied with keeping themselves alive to work together to deal with the demon. The only strategy that has any hopes of success at dealing with the inferno.

Mal grasp her shield in a firm hold. Getting up from behind the bushes at the edge of the clearing she rush into the fray. 

She figured that the reason the rage demon didn't attack the people inside the cave when it first appeared, is because of the contract made between the demon and the mage boy Joshua. By promising to protect the girl the demon had to go outside.

But now with the girl dead the contract is off. It's only a matter of time before the slaughter starts inside the cave, as the rage demon moves to kill the juicy targets inside the mountain. The people out here won't be enough to entertain it for much longer.

So Mal moves forwards. Rushing straight for the demon she has to kill. Because more children dying out here is simply not an option she is willing to take. Two is already more than anything her heart can handle.

The size is bigger than any rage demon she met at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but she has faced demons this big before. And she knows that while the size of the flames indicates its strength, the tactics to defeat them are the same.

She hears a thunderbolt crash into the ground by the trees of the forest. Solas probably getting himself involved. He will undoubtedly start to shape the battle with his influence of magic. A loud shrill of pain signals the end of the despair demon, but Mal has no time to look. She has her own demon to deal with.

As the ground starts to burn under Mal's feet, the rage demon shift its tiny black eyes to rest at her. The distance between them closing in fast. 

She meets its gaze firmly. But just as she is about to crash into the demon, her feet move quickly to the side. Using her speed going forwards, she turns in a half circle, and in an instant she stands facing the back of the flaming shape. Her sword arm hasn't yet unsheathed her weapon, but swords aren't any good against plasma anyway.

She gathers her spell in her arm, the prickling and numbing pain teasing her nerves. Then she plunge the primed arm deep into the open flames. 

The limb would normally burn in an instant as hot as it is inside, but that's not what's happening. The spell is keeping her arm icy cold. The limb itself functioning like a persistent spear of ice that refuse to yield to the flames.

The demon roars in anger, twisting to grab at Mal using the claws at its side. She avoids the movements, keeping up with the demons thrashing, and her arm stays firmly lodged into the flaming rage. It's hot on her skin, and the metal armour on her body is conducting the heat well, but she keeps it going. 

It's working. 

The creature slows down its movements, and quickly starts to shrink. The flames are quenched by the cold spreading from inside. A thin layer of ice starts to cover the demon from the ground up, undoubtedly Solas's work. Mal pulls out her arm in a single movement, and using her shield she bash the dying creature. The last bits of what's left shatters into tiny pieces, and the demon is no more. 

Regaining a proper foothold and drawing her sword, Mal keeps her senses open. Alert for any movement in her vicinity. 

But it's quiet. The sounds are almost all gone. The only thing she hears are the crackling flames licking at the formerly green ground and her own laboured breath. 

Looking around herself she sees no one alive. Templars and mages all lie in heaps on the ground, scorched and cut. 

Most Templars have marks of fatal magic on their bodies, but a couple has wooden bolts sticking out from vital organs as well. The mages are cut open or slashed with swords, but one is spouting a singed shoulder from a lightening spell, and another has a hole through the side of her stomach as a bolt passed through.

Solas and Varric has been vigilant in their work.

Turning around Mal sees her companions both coming towards her. Staff and crossbow ready at hand, but what catch Mal's eye is the painful expression drawn in hard lines across Varric's face. He didn't like this any more than Mal did, that much is obvious. 

Coming here she had expected a fight with bad people. The same monsters that had destroyed her friends and neighbours homes as well as lives. The damage these people have caused is immense, and it will take ages to rebuild everything. 

Yet…she had not expected desperate children. The young mages turning to demons in their own faulty attempt to do something in a violent situation. No one here to protect them from their own mistakes, and it cost them their lives.

Shit, how she hates these types of fights. Despite doing what she had to, she feels like a child murderer. 

"Varric. Any ideas?" Mal asks and nods towards the black cave. Silently begging him for something that doesn't involve going in armed and ready to shoot.

"Well, let's at least try and avoid more bloodshed, Fluffy." 

"Fluffy?" Mal asks, confusion pulling her out of her dismal thoughts for a short moment.

"Yeah…I need a pick-me-up. Think you do too." the answer is coupled with a dark undertone, like her new name didn't follow through with its intention. A valid attempt that doesn't reach its goal.

\-------------

They get the people inside the cave hauled off to Redcliff. Mal learned from Varric that a peaceful but desperate part of the mage rebellion is hauled up in the fishing village, and she agrees that it's the best place for the young teens and injured to go. 

When first meeting the unfortunate people in the cave, the three are greeted with a few basic fireballs, and a glyph waiting to paralyse them. Solas easily block both attempts, and the rest is history. 

It's amazing how amiable people become when they face undeniable defeat. 

Yet Mal don't miss the defiance in the young teenagers eyes, even as the party leaves for Redcliff. For them the fight isn't over, despite witnessing first-hand what happened to their friends. It probably won't be over for them until they learn to do better or die, whichever comes first.

But let Fiona in Redcliff deal with that. Mal has enough on her plate. She realize that this is the limits to what she can do for them, though that doesn't help ease her guilt at all.

\------------

It's a week later that Mal arrives at Haven.

Corporate Vale sent her up here as soon as she came back from the wilderness. She didn't even have time for a much needed bath at the Crossroads, but it's fine. She misses Effie. A long talk with the soothing comfort of beer is something Mal deeply craves.

So once again in the span of a few short weeks she greets the sight of Haven. There's a bustle of activity outside the village gates, but the cynical opportunists that were there before the conclave are nowhere to be found. Just soldiers. Most of them are new recruits by the way they're holding their swords and spears.

And the stables is almost empty. Seeing it makes her miss her old ox. Probably he's on his next adventure, driven onwards by his new master. 

As is Varric and Solas. 

They were left behind in the Crossroads. Given the order to stay and help with the assault on the Templars. The operation was well into the final stages of preparations as Mal left the place. 

And she suppose it makes perfect sense to split up the three of them. Varric is not a mage, and can therefore fight Templars without the fear of their abilities, and Solas is a skilled healer. He can stay in the back for the aftermath of injuries that is sure to come his way.

Mal is neither of these things. As a melee fighting mage she would be less than useless fighting a bunch of Templars. 

So now she gets to search for the dreaded white canvas tent belonging to Commander Cullen. Unfortunately it hasn't moved from its position by the training ground, so it's easy to find.

Putting her feet to action to do her damned duty, Mal sees a man that looks like he's about to piss himself. Making a quick guess that he has to go inside the dreaded tent soon, and that his nerves are wreaking havoc on his system, she knows she is supposed to pity him. 

And she would, if she wasn't so focused on her own stroke of good fortune.

Walking up to the poor man she looks him straight in the eyes and wish him good luck. Not a word comes out of his lips before she dumps a bunch of sealed reports onto his trembling arms and leaves, only too happy to shift her reason to talk to the military leader on to someone else. 

She has better places to be right now. 

Inside the gates is a mass of houses. Most of them are old structures, but some are new. All hastily constructed as the village gained the sudden need for space. It makes a tight maze though. Houses and worn paths in random places. It's not efficient, but they have at least been able to keep the main road to the Chantry clear of buildings. That at least makes things a little easier for the merchants and suppliers.

Mal makes her way up there. 

Remembering back to Effie's job as a chef she finds the kitchen easily enough near the big Chantry building. There's a large amount of people rushing in and out of the main door, all with big saucepans in their hands. Time for dinner Mal thinks, and she feels her own mouth water at the smell of the warm stew rolling out of the kitchen in an almost fluid motion. 

But she can't follow those saucepans to their destination just yet. No matter how much her stomach begs for her to reconsider.

Sliding into the line of people with empty trays, she gets inside. It's warm. The heat from the many fires must be stifling for those working here days on end, but to her it's like a pleasant sauna. A stark and welcomed difference from the cold outside.

"Hey!" someone yells at her with a pitched voice as she bumps into them. A kitchen boy carrying firewood luckily manages to save his load as he stumbles, but then he's quickly gone again. Already moving in quick strides towards his destination. 

Mal sees now that the kitchen boys are everywhere, and that it's imperative to navigate safely as the chefs are well armed with sharp knives. It all culminates to a need for some desperate measures to ensure her success. 

"Effie!" she yells at the top of her lungs. The name echoes loudly in here, despite the murmuring of sounds. The many times she called the druffalo home at night are undoubtedly helping her out with the technique, and the stone walls are doing their bit to magnify her voice. She just hope she didn't blow out the eardrums of anyone passing at front. 

After a few hopeful seconds Mal sees that it works. A mop of bushy red hair sticks out from the crowd in the back. A row of teeth behind Mal's lips show their naked selves as she finally puts her eyes on her dearly missed friend.

Pushing her way towards her beacon of hair, Mal sees the moment Effie sets her searching eyes on her form hurrying through the crowd. A wide gummy smile greets her, and eyes turns to small slits to make room for her rising round cheeks. 

Stepping down from the kitchen bench she's standing on, Effie wrestles her way forward, and meets Mal in a full hug. Chest crashing together in a bang, and Mal's metal greaves painfully digging their way into Effie's legs, just like they are to Mal. 

But it doesn't matter. Mal loves her, and being near Effie is all she needs right now. The emotional pain of the last week needs some healing, and Effie is the cure.

"We need to get out of here." The words leave Mal's wide mouth as soon as the hug culminates into another hug, but with slightly less pressure. Effie turns to look straight at Mal. Smile looking as wide as the saucers that are steadily leaving the kitchen right at this moment.

"You're safe. Got all your limbs and everything." The words leave Effie's mouth with a huge breath of air. The relief clear as day. "Meet me in the tavern after dinner. It's a new building out by the south side of the village walls. Can't miss it." The hurried words is a contrast to the arms around Mal that just seem to never want to let go. 

"Eat something, then I'll come as fast as I can. I promise." the parting words are not exactly as Mal had hoped, but at least she'll get to see her friend soon. She has the patience to wait just a little bit longer.


	10. Chapter 10

The kitchen boy she bumped into earlier makes his timely appearance yet again. His long hair is tied back in a sloppy bun, and the round eyes look at her with a lot more attention than last time. 

"The Commander wants to see you."

"The Commander can go and fuck himself." The rude words leaves Mal's mouth before her thoughts register who the boy is actually talking about. The Commander can't be anyone but the Commander of the Inquisition forces. Cullen. 

Perhaps the beer wasn't as watered out as Mal had first thought. That, or she's lost her alcohol tolerance. Sometimes excessive healing has that effect on her, and only occasionally has she abused that fact to get an easy buzz.

Beer and stew was the first thing she fetched as she entered this newly constructed tavern. It's big. One of the bigger buildings in town, but the sacrifice for that is efficiency. The roads going past the structure are tight and small. The distance to the outer wall itself is tiny, and the door is slightly askew. 

But it's warm. It's the reason it's popular she suppose, that and the lukewarm beer she's holding. 

She turns her head to face the boy straight. A boy that is obviously imagining giving her cussing message to the man of his nightmares, with the way his lower lip trembles and eyes that begs her to reconsider.

Mal almost gives into the urge to send him away with a wave of her hand. It's only been a short time since she left the kitchen, and Effie has not yet arrived. 

On second thought, she's not that cruel. She can deal with the Commander herself.

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment." and those words are the boy's cue to flee out the door. Probably, he's afraid that she'll change her message yet again now that he has good news to give. Looking at the retreating boy, Mal draws her mouth into a tight line and gives him a single pitying thought. Because she lied. 

She has no intention of seeing the angry Commander just yet. Effie comes first.

And a few minutes later her friend walks through the door. Cheeks red with the cold, and a bit of snow resting on her silver red hair. Immediately she spots Mal sitting towards the front of the tavern, just as Mal had intended.

And now that Effie is finally here, they hug, sit down, and Mal gives her friend the rest of her beer. Her bowl with the hot stew is empty, but Effie has probably already eaten. 

"How is the kitchens?" Mal asks. It's not the first time she's been away from Effie for a stretch of time, but it feels weird having to catch up. It's her best friend, yet Mal doesn't know anything about Effie's day to day life.

"Oh, there's a damned cat infestation." Effie sighs. The smile gone as her hands grip at her tousled hair in obvious frustration. "The animals are everywhere."

Mal looks down at her empty bowl. A thought creeping into her mind as she studies the bottom she scraped clean. "So there _was_ cat hair in my food." and Effie nods vigorously. A sly smile of pride touching her lips.

"Yeah, it binds the stew together. We're out of flour, so I couldn't thicken the stew like normal." Effie explains with a spring in her voice. Gesticulation help animating the picture of her planning today's dinner. "The cat hair helped bind the liquid together."

"Wait…you put cat hair in the food intentionally?" and Mal wouldn't really put it past Effie to do that on a bad day. Her creativity is top notch, even when her logic fails her completely.

"No! What do you take me for. You know that wherever there's cats you always get cat hair covering everything. I wouldn't go about making people eat fur on purpose." Mal is not so sure about that last part, having lived with the woman for 20 years. But she doesn't comment on it, as that wouldn't do any of them any good, least of all her.

"But you did make stew today, despite knowing you were out of flour. So…it was a planned unintentional use of cat hair?" Mal mumbles carefully, grabbing at her tanker to get it back. Alcohol doesn't seem to be what Effie needs right now. But for Mal the case is entirely different.

"Exactly! Tasted brilliant, didn't it. And we got to use the last of the ram's meet before it spoiled." Effie's pride in her handiwork forces a half smile on Mal's face. 

The stew did taste good. Cat hair and everything.

"But isn't a cat infestation a bit much? There's usually rats plaguing kitchens." Mal continues, sipping at the beer while noting that the conversation flows effortlessly. The uncertainty she felt in the beginning gone, and the simple ease of Effie telling her about her day helps her relax.

"I know." a dark tone is colouring Effie's answer this time, in a way that makes Mal think she hit the nail on the head. Something is going on in the kitchens at Haven.

"The damned rat came in last week, probably with the shipment from the South Reach. Those wildlings down there don't know cleanliness for shits." Mal is not about to point out that there was intentional cat hair in today's dinner, making the cleanliness at Haven questionable at best. After all, she prefers her ears attached to her head.

"Just the one rat?" the question is innocent enough, Mal thinks, but Effie almost collapse into her arms in a heap on the table. Misery coming out in waves from the crumbled form. "The thing is fond of lard, Mal. And no one has been able to catch it. 

We've tried everything, hence the horde of cats." That's bad news. Lard is imperative to mass cooking of food. It's impossible to feed a village without lard if you want to avoid massive complains about hunger not being satiated. 

Looking down at her empty bowl again Mal decides not to ask what happened to the lard the rat nibbled on. It's probably best to stay ignorant. 

But Effie's obvious frustration aside, she looks happy. All smiles and energetic. Just like Mal had hoped, and just like she needed.

Then Effie looks up at Mal again. Eyes worried, and questions on her lips. "What happened in the Hinterlands?" The smile on Mal's face disappears. She'd rather not think about the Hinterlands, but she knows she needs to. 

If she could just get the courage to tell Effie about the teens. 

"We took care of the mage hideout. Most of them are gone, and when I left they were planning an assault on the Templars. I suspect it succeeded." A half smile is pulling at Mal's lips, but she knows it's not reaching her eyes. Effie doesn't look fooled in the slightest.

"I think we can go back soon. The Inquisition should have the area under control in a few weeks at most." Mal continues, trying for a light tone with the good news. But Effie just shakes her head. Eyes closing as Mal utters her thoughts on them returning to the farm.

"You know I can't do that." She starts. The words are exactly as Mal feared. Words she really don't want to hear. "I finally have some purpose. The Inquisition is doing good work, and I can't leave that behind."

"You're a kitchen worker, what's one lousy person to-" 

"I'm the head chef." Effie interrupts in a sharp and firm tone. It's not meant to be scolding, Mal knows, though she feels bad regardless. But Effie has to know that she is easily replaced in the larger picture. Head chef or not. 

"At the farm all I did was produce enough food for the two of us, and sell hemp to the local brewery. My only true contribution to this world was simply make people drunk, and that was it.

Now it's different. I help make sure brave people are able to do what is right by getting food in their stomachs. I've never been happier." the last statement contradicts her stern eyes, but Mal gets the point. At least, she thinks she does, as the implication is clear. 

Effie wants purpose in her life. The farm isn't enough. A life of idleness isn't what she wants, and though Mal is right there next to her, she craves more. 

"What happened in the Hinterlands?" Effie repeats her earlier question, her hand reaching Mal's for comfort. Taking the offered hand, Mal use her other one to sip at the beer. The lukewarm liquid soothing her nerves.

"We found the mages, but they were already fighting the Templars. There were young teens there, and two of them turned into demons. I killed one, and a friend killed the other." The words leave Mal's mouth in a steady flow. But it's nothing like how she's feeling inside. "I know the boy was already dead when I killed the demon, but Effie, it doesn't make me feel any better." The words betray her emotions. It's stifling.

Stroking Mal's hand Effie tries for a comforting smile. "But you said it yourself. The mages hideout is gone. What you did were a good thing." 

"Didn't you listen?! I killed children. How can you say that I did well, when people that never had a chance to grow up is dead." Tears are threatening to make themselves known as the pressure grows behind Mal's eyes. This is the reason she wants idleness in her life. Fighting and getting oneself involved in a bigger picture is not something she's made to do. Not something she can handle.

"Do you know what my granny said when my pet rock died?

There's beauty in every breakdown. The reason you're sad is because you care." Tears are flowing down Mal's face now. Pain at the image of the tiny black eyes on the rage demon, eyes that once belonged to a boy. A boy that was loved by someone dear. 

"You know the difference between killing the deserved, and killing the unlucky. And that is a precious thing." and at Effie's last words she reach for Mal's wrist. The small strokes on the sensitive skin making her feel raw, all the way to her bones.

So she starts to mourn. Sitting in her chair at the tiny round table with lively conversations all around, Effie holds her hand and start to tell her how in the void a pet rock can die. Mal is only half listening, but the voice feels comforting nonetheless.

And eventually it starts to feel alright again. The beer in the tankard shrinks, and Mal feels like she can breathe once more. 

\-------------------

The kitchen boy is at her table again. His bun is even more askew than before, and this time he's not only staring, but looking at her like she's Mafareth, the betrayer and killer of Andraste herself. 

"T-the Commander says…says that two hours is more than what a moment e-entails. He says to c-come at once, he says." the boy is terrified, that much is obvious. The stammer wasn't there before, nor the chewed lip. 

"Mal!" Effie shrieks, but Mal just waves at her to calm down. Having no patience for this. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop yelling my name like you're a cat in heat." Though Mal's crying stopped a while ago and she's had a chance to laugh at Effie's childhood blunders of killing her rock, she still feels like she has a right for time off. Not quite ready to face the world once more.

But Effie doesn't calm down. Instead she looks exasperated. "Maker preserve me, you're drunk." but Mal shake her head. She's not drunk. Though she's not sober either. 

"We need to get you going…blessed tits Mal, this is the Commander." Effie have already gotten up from her seat, and is pulling at Mal to do the same. "When we first came here we agreed that you keeping your head is a priority, so why in the Makers arse are you so bent on getting rid of it." 

"But I missed you." The feeble answer rolls out of Mal's mouth as she's getting dragged out of the tavern. The boy keeping a close watch on the event. "That's not a reason." Effie answers sternly, but Mal can't help but think that it used to be. Back when she had ages to live and idle happiness was all she could strive for. 

Besides, Effie has yelled at the Commander before. And she got out just fine. How bad can it really be.

\----------------

Effie dumps her outside the white tent. Grey and brown dirt clawing at the hems, as it hasn't been moved since it was first erected. The night sky is dark. Shadowed by all the torches alight at the training ground, though the flames all seem to shiver at the gusts of cold wind rolling in from the mountain. 

Yet the soft heat coming off the tent still isn't enough to make Mal want to go inside, though she has little choice.

Opening the tent cloth, she steps into the small space. Inside she sees the Commander bent over his desk. A desk that is covered in papers and candles, dousing the room in a soft light and causing large dark shadows in every corner.

The Commander looks up from his work, and Mal can see the deep lines of fatigue covering his face. It looks worse than before, though Mal hardly think that's possible. The candles give him a warm blush to his cheeks, though there is no mistaking the anger in his eyes when he realize who is interrupting his work.

"You said you'd be here in a moment." but as soon as the loud rebuke is out of his mouth he close his eyes tightly. A hand comes up to support his forehead, and he shakes it slowly before looking back at Mal. "Doesn't matter. You're here now."

Mal decides not to say anything. With people like him that's usually the best approach in her experience. 

She still hasn't given up hope on getting out of here without much incidence.

"I've read Corporate Vale's report on your latest mission. I must say I'm not pleased with his accounts." The last words is coupled with a sharp look, making Mal feel like she's being doused in a bucket of cold water. Her hope dwindling as the sinking feeling in her stomach tells her that this is going to be unpleasant. 

"He writes that a group of rebel mages went to Redcliff to meet up with Grand Enchanter Fiona, with your encouragement." His hands fold underneath his chin, and hazel eyes won't break their focus. The words are spoken like an accusation, yet Mal can't for the life of her understand why.

Back at the Crossroad they explained to Corporate Vale that the mages they let go were teens and injured. That they needed help more than they posed a danger, so the decision to have them get to safety was an easy one.

"Yes. I did." Mal answers, as there's no doubt the Commander is waiting for her reply. And the gulp passing her throat as she finish these short words might be audible even to his ears, as well as her own.

"And you judged that to be safe?" Commander Cullen continues, and Mal catch the irony in his voice. His disapproval of her.

Shit, Mal knows she's in trouble now. Feels it in her bones.

She remembers the warning the Commander gave as she first set out. The gratitude of her sacrifice at the Temple to save Mahanon's life in one moment, and a stern advice of caution to not treat mages favourably in the next. But the outcome of her mission was just that. Unfavourable to the Templars that all died. 

She could hide behind a joint decision between Varric, Solas, and her. She wasn't alone in all this, yet the only reason she is here by herself is because the other two are busy…killing Templars in the Hinterlands. 

Or…she could defend herself. And she should. After all, what she did that day was the right thing to do.

"They were just teens and injured. Of course they weren't dangerous." her voice sounds feeble to her own ears. She tried to not make it that way, though she suspects that anyone, other than the Commander himself that is, will sound small speaking in this tiny space.

The answer isn't what he wanted. Broad shoulders unmoving between the tight canvas walls, and sharp eyes on a drained face making Mal feel like a snouflour in a dragon's lair. Helpless.

"But according to your own words two of those mages turned to abominations. You disposed of one of them yourself. Yet, you deemed the rest of them safe as they left your care." the Commander continues as a matter of fact. Like pointing out a breach of logic, but Mal furrows her brows. The way this man talks about these people…like they're not people at all but solely potential threats. 

Just like a Templar would.

"Yes, of course." Mal starts, panicked confusion clouding her mind as she tries to find the answer he's looking for. The ones she has obviously isn't good enough, but she can't for the life of her see how she acted wrong. 

"Mages have attachments to each other. They sympathise, even after one of them turns into an abomination. You saw yourself how the second mage turned to despair due to the first one becoming a demon. They aren't equipped to deal with this issue themselves." his fist tighten in a ball on his desk, and his voice betray his exasperation. 

Mal sees now that this is not a subject he takes lightly. Though that doesn't make him right.

"They're not like Templars you mean. Not like people that are trained specifically to view mages as nothing but threats. You do realize that they train their empathy away, leaving them as nothing but empty shells of what it means to be alive." A fleeting thought that fighting the Commander is a bad idea creeps into Mal's mind, but the thought leaves just as fast.

She just cried her heart out for killing two children, yet this man has the audacity to claim that she should have killed more?! 

"Yes. The detachment is necessary to do the job as safely as possible." His counter is not what Mal had expected. He's not disputing her at all, yet he believes every word coming out of his mouth. That is clear with the way his face hardens and the sharp lines around his mouth deepens.

Like a soldier thinking of his cruel but necessary duty. A duty he refuse to fail.

"Do you believe it an easy sacrifice? Templars detach themselves from mortal feelings, giving everything they have in the service of the Maker. They do this to keep people safe, yet. It is as you say, the detachment from their feelings makes them monsters." anger and hopelessness mix together in those words. His hand in a tight fist trembles against the wooden desk, and his knees straighten to knock his chair to the ground in an audible clatter.

"You're not wrong, Mal. Yet the solution to have mages live freely is not an option. We cannot afford the luxury of treating mages like everyone else, when they pose the danger that they do." Mal steps back. The canvas tent reminding her that there's nowhere to go. "We cannot let the Templar order fail, despite the tremendous injustice it cause to the Templars themselves."

Mal had never thought of it this way. Templars were always her hunter, out to catch and jail her, or worse. Since the order first appeared in Thedas, they have always posed a limit to her freedom as a mage, and thus have always been the bad guys.

Yet this man claims they are victims. Victims to a necessary cruelty created for peoples own safety. 

It's a side to the story she has never heard before.

"But the system-" Mal starts her final argument in a squeaking voice, easily cut off by the bitterly angry Commander. "The system is far from perfect, the current conflict is proof enough of that." he draws a deep breath and close his eyes. An effort to calm himself down. "But that does not mean that freedom is the solution." 

Turning around he picks up his chair. The movement creating a break in the heavy atmosphere in the cramped tent, and Mal gets a moment to breathe. 

Slowly finishing setting up his wooden chair, Cullen gives them both time to calm down. To contemplate the heavy words exchanged between them. When finished with the small and needed break, the Commander locks his eyes at her yet again. "I have more work for you." he says slowly. Looking down at his desk for a moment, he easily finds the paper he's searching for.

"We have an urgency for more supplies, hence we're looking to secure a route to the Fallow Mire." the tone is deep. Eyes not leaving the paper he's holding. "The Blue Vitirol and Summer Stone will give us much needed metal for our equipment." the statement is a stark contrast to his earlier anger. Professional almost to a fault. 

"There's a scouting party leaving tomorrow morning, and lieutenant Gissur has requested your presence." Mal nods. Her head starting to catch up to the words coming out of Commander Cullen's mouth. There's a new mission, and Lieutenant Gissur is a good captain.

And the Fallow Mire, while a real shit hole, won't cause her much issues.

The Commander reach out his gloved hand across the desk. It's empty and stretched out, waiting for Mal. She grasp it. Barely knowing what's going on anymore. "I hope we can continue to work together. A mage and a former Templar doing their best creating an example of a future we all can agree upon." he holds her gaze for a moment longer. Expression unreadable to Mal, before he lets go of her hand. 

The conversation is over, and Mal leaves with a lot of food for thought.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning Mal finds lieutenant Gissur in front of the stables. Next to her, two small mounts strapped to a wagon are waiting patiently for their handler to finish the saddling. 

Mal can almost see the way the horses falls asleep on their feet, and the handler definitely would have liked a morning that came a little later. Tears are forming in his eyes as he show Mal his entire row of teeth with his extending mouth going into a full blown yawn.

Despite the early hour it's a nice morning. The sun is still hiding behind the mountain top, but the rays of light should greet them soon. A thin layer of snow fell during the night, so the usual grey and brown ground is covered in white. And a few places of rising smoke mark the early activity in the small village. 

The only thing disturbing the peace is the faint green shimmer, reflected in the white snow. Mal knows that looking up she'll see the constant vortex colouring the morning sky, but she doesn't want to. Mahanon will deal with it at some point, and before then Mal might as well not think about it. Do her bit to contribute to his work, and stop her worrying there.

She wish her head would listen to the same logic when it comes to Commander Cullen. All night Mal has been turning in her cot, timed with her shifting thoughts.

He made it clear, that the Templars are victims. His arguments were too compelling, and despite Mal's own feeble injections, her own convictions regarding the Templars were thoroughly trashed.

They're just following their duty to protect people. And it's a duty that leads to pain, both in themselves and to their charges. 

Mal was blind to it until last night, but now she can't unlearn it. However much she wish to. There's a new pity in her gut for her would-be-hunters that she can't get rid of, and damned if she tried as she tossed and turned in her cot all night.

And it's all the Chantry's fault. They decided to jail mages. They are the ones that created and maintained a system based on injustice at its very core. It's not right. It's not fair. And it's all in the name of keeping people safe, and…is that reason enough? For a lot of people Mal knows that it is.

Her only consoling thought is that Mal knows she's not in a position to do anything about it. She's simply too insignificant in the light of things, as a simple scout in service of the one that's going to stop the veil from getting completely destroyed, and that's enough. That's more than enough for her. 

A straight forward mission to focus on, and she'll let the Commander deal with his own problems. 

Outside Haven on her way to the great cold bog in the desolate south is not the place to think thoughts regarding the state of the world. So shaking her head to focus on her own task, Mal cross the fresh snow to greet her new team. 

Lieutenant Gissur spots Mal as soon as she rounds the empty wagon. A large smile appears on her face as she greets the latest addition to the scouting team. "Mal, I'm glad you're here." and Mal lights up a grin herself from her petulant yawning face. "Good to see you're still standing." 

It's the first time since the Temple Mal has seen any of her companions from her earlier scouting group. And seeing the lieutenant now, after fighting beside her for days and watching as her strength slowly diminished, is comforting.

They survived an ordeal together, and while that doesn't automatically mean they're friends, they're far from strangers.

"This is the rest of the group. The twins Helga and Bianca," Gissur says while pointing to two dwarves that are spouting the same toothy smile. Bows strapped to their backs, and long hair tied up in similar buns. "and the last one is Thryn. He's my second." the man Gissur is pointing to is grinning with an exceedingly handsome face. Perfect eyes and perfect chin creates the man of many dreams.

The broken nose twice over is almost a relief for Mal's poor eyes, but doesn't deter her conviction that this man must have crushed a lot of young hearts by the simple virtue of existing.

"I'm at your service." Tryn says and shakes her hand. Mal notice that the sword at his side is unaccompanied by a shield. Confusion creeps up on her before she spots the handle on a dagger sticking out from his back. 

A dual fighter then. That opens up for some interesting tactics.

\--------------------

The first part of the travel is spent on the supply wagon. It's on its way to the Hinterlands, and since it's empty the scouting team gets a free ride down the mountain. From there they have to go by foot, but that is just as well, Mal thinks. 

The watery landscape soon makes heavy animals a hindrance more than a help in going forwards. The trees are huge, and the ground sags with their added weight. As a result Mal's boots are constantly wet, and she's hoping against hope that she won't end up with a fungal infection between her toes.

And her companions are in the same boat.

The four of them used to be assigned together as scouts in the Hinterlands, working on the initial encounter with horsemaster Dennet. The Inquisition is in need of more and better mounts, and Mal is pleased to hear that the horsemaster is cooperative. They'll have their much needed mounts soon enough, Gissur thinks. 

In light of this the Commander decided to reassign Gissur's group to the Fallow Mire. Working one step ahead, and counting on expanding the supply routes so they'll be ready when the horses are secured. 

And of course, the decision was made just as Mal came back from the Hinterlands. So they decided she should join the quest to the Fallow Mire, as an extra hand would be good going into unknown territory. 

Thus as Mal trudge through the cold mud and thick vegetation, she can at least comfort herself and her gradually whitening toes with the knowledge that the Inquisition won't waste her time on idle rest and recuperation. Instead, sending her out immediately upon her first returning to Haven.

But Mal takes this trip in strides. Focusing instead on the good parts.

The company is great. The two sisters doing a wonderful job of scouting ahead, killing small animals for fresh meals of meat, and telling stories about all the different methods the merchant guild use to extract money owed by their clients. Mal is impressed by the creativity. At the same time she's immensely thankful that she never got involved in the notorious dwarven guild. A guild that has done very well for itself ever since it was first founded by the new surface dwarves. 

But the real entertainment is with Gissur and Thryn. The drama is simply too great for Mal to get bored while walking all day.

The man is infatuated with their lieutenant. The longing glances coupled with a soft expression makes this glaringly obvious from the moment Mal got to know this little group. And by the Creators, is he exceedingly cute with all the small complements and innocent favours to their lieutenant.

The best part is that Mal is convinced that even in this non-reciprocal situation that Thryn is a happy man. Being near their able captain is enough, and that is simply amazing to witness.

Yet, Mal thinks that the lieutenant is entirely aware of Thryn's feelings. She ignores it the best she can, like the respectable and proficient captain she is. Like when she avoids looking at him when he smiles at her, or ignores him entirely when he does his little favours, striving to treat him equally to everyone else. 

In fact, it takes a while before Mal starts to catch on the fact that Gissur is as in love with Thryn as he is with her.

A pinning love story in the marches of southern Ferelden. It's bittersweet and delightful, and Mal can't help but be drawn into the hope that these two will one day find the opportunity to love one another openly. 

But the mission comes first, and so far all the scouting group can tell the Commander is that there is a pressing need for proper roads if he wants to extract metal from this place.

That, and Mal can feel the constant presence of the Fade. The veil is thin here.

A few houses are scattered in this place. The cottages are far and few in between, but people have lived here before. There isn't anyone here now though. The houses are all abandoned. Most have fallen beams and caved in roofs, signalling that this place has been deserted for quite some time.

"Mal!" Gissur yells from inside one of the houses. The sky is dark with a thick layer of clouds, refusing the bog its right to sunlight. The rotten house from where Gissur is yelling has caved in to the point of just having a few planks and beams. All that is left of what used to be a home.

Inside Mal sees Gissur bent over what must have been a bed. Two of the bedposts have collapsed, and what is on it is unmistakably a corpse. The flesh is layered and loose. The bloating of the body must have passed, as the gut is hollow and the muscles are all but gone.

But what Mal notice is that there's no insects. Nothing that eats at the corpse as it's supposed to. The skin is mostly intact, so there hasn't been any carrion animals gorging on it either. It's strange, as in this wet environment the corpse shouldn't have lasted long, despite the cold.

"What do you think?" Gissur asks with a tense expression, having come at the same conclusion as Mal. Something is afoot.

"If the area is abandoned we wouldn't have found corpses." She continues, while shaking her head in worried perplexion. "Could the old and sick have been left behind? And if so, what constituted the sudden need to flee." and Mal agrees. This isn't normal. There's no wounds, so there shouldn't have been any danger that constituted running.

Then Mal notice the heavy tingling on her skin. The thin veil teasing her senses. Telling her that there's something moving on the other side, and Mal doesn't want to find out what.

She grabs Gissur's arm, and drags her away from the corpse. "We need to get out of here." she says hurriedly. A glance back reveals a slight movement of the corpses head, trying to aim it's empty sockets at the two retreating women. 

Then there's yelling outside. Helga is calling out for Mal and Gissur, and when they finally climb out the broken house both women see chaos.

Thryn is fighting three corpses. The twins are both shooting their arrows in support of the sole fighter, but arrows don't do much against dead flesh. With both his daggers in nimble hands, Thryn pierce the dead bodies with accurate blows. The trouble is that his piercing daggers don't do much harm to a heart that is already dead. 

He needs help, and he needs it fast.

Mal starts to run. Across the soggy open ground, she readies her shield almost on instinct. It's the most important thing that can now save Thryn, as he won't last long deflecting unending persistence from the corpse's limbs. Finally reaching the battle, she doesn't stop her feet moving forwards. 

Utilizing her speed, Mal runs straight into an unyielding corpse's torso, her shield raised to take the blunt of the impact. Luckily it falls back, and hits the wet ground with a thud. Bending her knees, Mal turns her shield around, just in time to knock an assaulting arm to the side.

"Get behind me." Mal wheeze, and Thryn quickly listens. Using her as a shield against the onslaught of dead flesh, just as Mal had first intended.

Together they quickly work out a method to fight the monsters. Mal use her shield to block the continuous attempts from the dead to reach her and Thryn, while the dual wielding rogue use his daggers swiftly to cut and slash through flesh and bone. His piercing method replaced as he must have figured out the fruitlessness of his efforts. 

Mal sees the metal reach to one side of her at all times, and does her best to see that he's as unhindered as possible when reaching forward in subsequent attacks. And it's working.

Gissur joins them, and together they dissemble the last of the moving cadavers.

As the last corpse falls with a wet splash, Gissur turns to face Mal, rotten flesh sticking to the blade in her hand. "What is this." the hardened shock and fear in her voice carries through the heavy rain.

Looking around, Mal search for answers herself. There's water and ponds everywhere. The rain is constant, and it's been like this for days now, and she now realize that it's not a coincidence. The Fade must be affecting the weather to its own image. Usually it's the opposite, but with the veil in its current weak form the magic has to be bleeding through. 

But the real issue is that it's not only the weather that gets through the thin fabric separating magic and the physical world.

"Those were weaker spirits embodying corpses." Mal begins, looking back at Gissur. Hard lines of tension across her face, but the eyes reveal fear. Understandable Mal thinks, as she knows they're in trouble.

"I don't think people fled this place at all Gissur." Mal continues, her realization of what must have happened dawning on her. "They must have all died and the remaining corpses allowed spirits to cross over. The demons then walked the corpses into the water, preventing the bodies from decaying." Mal won't mention the constant rain. The walking dead is enough for these people to handle.

"Then we need to get out of here." Gissur decides swiftly.

\-------------

A few minutes later while hurrying back the damp path, Mal feels a sudden sharp impact aimed at her shoulder. Pain is released in an instant, and the force push her into losing her balance. 

Falling forwards on the wet ground alerts the others, but it's too late as a loud shout already screams from their left. A battle-cry that Mal doesn't recognize. Immediately her senses goes alert to the sudden attack.

Reaching for her shield, Mal realize that her left arm isn't listening to her commands at all. A quick glance at her side reveals a metal tip sticking out from between the joint of her armour, having pierced her shoulder straight through. She notice the sharp pain stings like needles down her arm.

Gissur is yelling out her panic, and Mal can hear Thryn's wet boots rush to her side. Mal force her head to stay still and focus on herself. Let Thryn take care of their lieutenant, as Mal won't do much good in her current state.

The arm that is still listening to Mal's command grasps a hold of the hilt of her sword. She knows that there's no time to be injured. She can care for her shoulder later, as now she has to rely on her well-honed intuition to coerce her into action. 

She push herself up on her knees and draws her weapon. Then lifts her head and gets her first glance at what has developed into a full blown battle. 

Thryn and Gissur are working together on defeating two huge men with axes, and Helga scrambles back to gather a little bit of distance between her and the man going at her with a hammer. She doesn't make it, and the assaulting weapon hits her temple.

She falls like a sack of flour, right on the wet ground. Bianca exclaims a fierce cry by her side, and a dagger is quickly drawn from her thigh. It finds its place deep inside the attackers groin, right as he lifts his shield. The man screams and collapse to his knees, and his head bends low as he slowly sinks further down onto the ground. 

Bianca doesn't stop there though, and pulls out an arrow and aims it at an unfamiliar thigh, making the most out of her short statue.

Mal lets her injured arm hang uselessly to the side. While still on her knees she spins around, aiming for the unknown man she feels at her back. He avoids the sharp metal coming at him, swiftly stepping back on the slippery mud despite his large frame.

His shield lowers, cutting off Mal's ability to reach his skin with her weapon. But a trained glance at his technique ignites a wild glee in her cheeks. His lack of experience fighting smaller enemies is glaring her straight in the face.

She gets up and steps forward in a single movement, kicking with all she got at the top most spot on the glinting wet shield. It flips back. Unsupported with its low position angled to the ground. 

Mal can almost hear the snapping sound of fingers breaking as they're forced into impossible positions with the wayward shield. The scream coming from his mouth reach her ears easily enough.

The opening is clear, and she stabs forward with her sword, aiming and piercing the lower part of the man's face. He dies instantly, and Mal gets her first revenge for her pierced shoulder.

Turning around in the murky bog, Mal sees a horde of shadows moving towards her. A hoard of attackers quickly closing in on their small group fighting their best. It's going to be a complex close quarter battle. A battle Mal starts to doubt they can win.

A huge brute of a man wielding a giant maul rush towards Gissur. He lifts his weapon and angles it towards her head, but at the last flicker of time he feigns, leading his maul parallel to the ground. The heavy metal hits Gissur straight on the leg above her ankle, forcing her to fall as she can no longer balance on her useless leg. 

Thryn is on the ground unmoving. His dagger sticking out of an unknown woman's chest next to him, and Mal can't see Bianca anywhere. The stealthy dwarf could easily escape Mal's notice, she knows, but she can't help fear the worst. Bianca isn't armed with anything but her sharp arrows, which makes her exceedingly vulnerable in this close quarter combat.

The man with the huge maul move in on Mal. His face partly covered by bearskin, but his glee of pleasure is revealed easily enough. She rolls forwards. The pain in her shoulder makes its protest, but Mal ignores it. She can't afford to hesitate now. 

Staying close to the ground is probably her best bet, as the man must be hindered by his size and the weight of his weapon. Her safety is worth the cold digging into the leather beneath her armour as she scramble on the wet dirt. 

Her sword then moves in a vertical half circle, going for the attackers legs the same as he just did to lieutenant Gissur. 

But he jumps up. With shock in her eyes she looks up, just as he skilfully manoeuvre his maul to aim straight at her. The weight of the maul moving down with tremendous power. 

Mal scramble to the side to avoid the death blow. But just then she hears a shift of a boot by her head, and before she gets a chance to react she feels her skull ring as its smashed to the ground. She sees and hears nothing, as there's only pure agony pulsing through her head before oblivion takes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to research how corpses decay for this chapter. They say ignorance is bliss, and now I learned a new meaning of that saying. I'd rather live without those images in my poor head. Yet, I don't regret it though, as I'm strangely proud of my corpse descriptions.


	12. Chapter 12

"Are you awake?" A familiar voice calls from close by. It's the first thing that registers in Mal's hurting mind besides a faint grunting. A wretched sound that she's starting to think originates from her own parched and hurting throat. 

"You'll be fine. Here, drink some water." A cup containing the cool liquid is placed at Mal's lips, and the soothing water flows gently down her throat. Opening her eyes she sees stone. Wet stone in layers creating walls that surrounds Mal entirely. She doesn't recognize the room at all. But she does see that all the other scouts from her group are here as well, and they're alive even if bruised and battered.

It's Helga that's helping her drink. The soft face has dried blood sticking to the side of her skull, making clumps out of her hair. The expression is focused and hands sturdy as they once again lift the cup to Mal's grateful lips.

"What happened?" the raspy voice doesn't sound like it's coming from her own mouth at all. But it is, as the words reflect her jumbled thoughts precisely.

"We're captured. Held in an Avvar stronghold in the Mire." Helga answers. As the words slowly register in Mal's mind she starts to look around more closely at the room she's in. Cracks in the walls reveal the heavy rain and darkness looming outside, and the persistent yet faint daylight is barely visible through thick clouds. All tell-tale signs of the Fallow Mire.

"Why aren't we dead?" Mal asks what is to her a fair question. Keeping them alive has no value to the Avvar, what so ever. They're simply flesh and bone that tear on food supplies. Keeping prisoners is for the wealthy, and the Avvar is definitely not merciful by the means of their pocket change.

Helga looks almost stone-faced, yet worry seeps through her cracks. "Their chief want's to challenge the Herald to a fight. We're the bait." Slowly the implications sink into Mal's aching mind, and she feels her own cold dejection as she realise what this truly means.

The Avvar are idiots. And Mal's scouting group is screwed because of a lack of brainpower. 

The Herald can't risk his life for five insignificant scouts. He's way too valuable with his ability to save the veil, and the world with it, from complete destruction. There's nothing to gain and everything to lose in a foolish battle for five lives and a dash of pride. 

So Mal's group is stuck. Stuck for as long as the Avvar patience lasts.

There's ruffling to the side of Mal's head. A man appears in front of her, concern etched into a face of perfection. "Is she alright?" Thryn asks. His eyes are looking over Mal even as his question is directed at Helga. "A blow to the head, but she'll be fine." And it's the answer he's looking for. He nods as he studies something around her left ear for a moment before continuing with slight anticipation.

"Can you get up?" he asks. His hands reach for Mal's shoulder, the one that's not in pain, and he helps pull her up to a sitting position. The small change in elevation makes Mal rely heavily on the help of his supporting hands. It feels like her head is about to explode. And there's a hammer starting up the beginning steps of a tavern dance inside her skull, beating in a steady rhythm.

When she's finally able to turn around she gets a better look at Gissur. The lieutenant is lying flat out on the floor, a makeshift cot supporting her body. One of her legs is propped up on a rolled piece of cloth supported by a balanced stone. There's a lot of blood staining her ankle.

"Please, can you look at her leg?" Thryn continues while Gissur herself turns her dark eyes to stare at Mal. Her complexion is pale and expression faint. 

Mal remembers the maul Gissur took to her leg. The cry of anguish from her lieutenant as she fell on the mud when she couldn't support her own weight any longer. Even now the leg is bundled up with a sullied cloth, but Mal can tell that it must look like crap underneath it all. Thryn's expression of someone relying on a miracle confirms it, even more than Gissur's sickly form.

Shit. Dealing with undead would have been better than this. 

A sinking pit forms in Mal's stomach that has nothing to do with her head nausea, though she wish it did. "I can't help her." Mal rasp out, avoiding her eyes so she doesn't have to look at Thryn. She doesn't want to witness him losing hope.

"What do you mean." He says with an edge to his voice that makes Mal feel shame. "You're a mage, you're supposed to heal people." 

It's not Mal's fault she can't do anything. She knows this, yet time and time again she feels like she's betraying her friends when faced with her limitations. Helping and supporting others isn't something her magic does and her feeling of guilt won't change anything. 

Yet, like always her emotions isn't listening to her own rational objections.

"Thryn, I told you she wouldn't be able to do anything." Gissur says. Mal looks up to see a faint smile on Gissur's lips as she locks eyes with the sick woman. Like she's trying to console Mal, despite the one in obvious need of comfort herself. "We fought together for three days after the conclave, and even when the situation seemed lost, she never cast a spell on anybody else. Whether a demon or a friend." Mal look up at Thryn just in time to see the last flicker of hope in his eyes disappear entirely at Gissur's feeble words. He's scared. More than anything he's terrified. 

"But if you die I-"

"You heard Helga. I'll probably live." Gissur continues, though Thryn isn't consoled. Mal understands. Gissur doesn’t look good at all, but on the other hand she is awake and coherent. Those are both signs she'll pull through. Thryn grabs Gissur's hand in a firm but gentile hold. Mal thinks the warm gesture is as much of a comfort to himself as it is for Gissur.

"I'm more worried about not being able to use the leg again. A lieutenant without the ability to walk doesn't have much use to the Inquisition." A soft sigh leaves Thryns at Gissur's words. His gaze firmly locked at her hand in his. "Perhaps they should let you go. You'd be a lot easier to keep safe that way." His expression soften and his eyes pleads as he's not able to do anything to help her. It all culminates to a single gesture of kissing her hand in his grasp. 

"I'm sorry." Gissur whispers. Regret showing through her wan expression. "When this is over, I promise I'll make it up to you-" 

If they make it out of here, Mal finish silently. But the thought that they might not make it out is prominent in her mind. She knows she won't be able to punch her way out of this.

\---------------------

They wait for weeks. At least, Mal thinks its been weeks but the small change in light between day and night makes keeping track near impossible. 

At the very least Gissur isn't dying. Helga and Bianca use what little knowledge they have in healing and do their best caring for the lieutenant. They're even able to grovel off some limited supplies from the Avvar, and it pays off. The wounds close. The leg is still mangled so that it can't support her weight, but Gissur will live much to Thryn's immense relief. 

It's another long night in the stone room that Mal has become too familiar with now. Thryn is snoring next to Gissur. Mal is awake and has learned a game called the Deepcrawler's Run from the twins. It keeps her focus on the quick moving pebbles across the makeshift board on the stone floor. Most importantly it's a way to pass time as they wait.

A continuous wait for something to happen. Most likely they're waiting for the Avvar to finally lose their patience with keeping them as useless bait.

Mal is surprised they haven't gotten rid of them yet. It quickly became clear the Avvar were lacking supplies. Food is scarce, and the few undead Mal fought before getting caught weren't the only dead people walking. There's a horde of them outside, and the Avvar is pushed for strength when it comes to venturing outside the walls of their stronghold. They can't hold out forever. But judging from their power of deduction that Mal has seen so far, she wouldn't be surprised if they think they can beat the dead against all odds.

At the moment Mal and the twins are playing one more game of Deepcrawler's Run. It must be well into hundreds of rounds they've played by now, and Mal is finally getting close to beating elusive Bianca. She's getting a knack for controlling the roll of the uneven pebbles on the stone floor.

But as the next pebble starts its path to the finish line, Mal starts to hear noises outside. Her ears turn their quick attention to the outdoors like they always do, by now it's a well versed habit, yet this time something is different. 

While the Avvar is not a quiet bunch, this sounds more than just their regular late night activities. There are screams and roars. Heavy objects falling on the stone floor, and Mal would never mistake sounds of magic. The ice that shatters has to have been conjured, and the sound of the small explosions of flames erupting from the ground comes from the Fade and not from a flask. 

Helga and Bianca both turn to the door. Eyes alert with a look that is mirrored in Mal, she's sure. A hope shared between them the battle sounds outside represent the bell of release, and the reinforced wooden door that has been a constant source for longing for their freedom will open for good. 

And they don't have to wait for long.

The noise ends, and soon after someone starts to insert a key to their door with awkward hands. By the time it opens Mal has thoroughly forgotten about almost winning the game with her lucky pebbles, and is halfway getting up from the floor in pure anticipation. The first thing she sees as the squeaky door finally reveals it's slow handler are wide hopeful eyes on a face filled with intricate marks.

"The Herald of Andraste!" Bianca exclaims in her relief at their rescue.

"Is everybody alright?" Mahanon asks. Eyes roaming over the state of the scouts, stopping for a moment at Gissur sitting on the stone floor. Her legs is stretched out in front of her with a makeshift cast.

"We're fine your worship." Gissur answers. A wide row of teeth showing her gratitude and joy. There's a healthy glow in her cheeks that has patiently returned ever since they all got locked up in here. Mahanon's gaze lingers for a moment at Gissur before turning his head to look over his shoulder. "Vivienne. Could you please have a look?" 

"Of course, my dear." A noble voice answers as a tall and dark woman appears at Mahanon's side. After a quick assertive glance at the state of each scout, she goes inside the hostage room in one fluid motion.

She's a mage. That much is clear from the impressive staff handled with graceful hands. Her stance is regal and demands respect. When she bends her knees to take a better look at Gissur, Mal can only describe her expression as cold kindness. Soothing, yet without any depth at all. 

Thryn clearly is beyond caring about Vivienne's cold demeanour, as he tries to help her the best he can with describing Gissur's state. His worry prominent with his hasty speech, and Mal thinks he's right with his haste. The mage is probably their best bet to Gissur's health.

Getting up from her position on the floor, Mal approach the door. Mahanon looks worn out with his armour dirty and ripped, yet his back is straight and his face is full of life. Spotting Mal he demonstrates how wide his mouth can get with a smile whilst his eyes wrinkle the ink on his young face. "I finally found you." And Mal can't help but soften her own expression in turn.

Mal remembers the last time she saw the Herald in the Hinterlands. His frustration at being commanded to go to Val Royaux and talk to nobles is still prominent in her mind. Now, there's a self-assurance he sorely lacked from her first impression of the boy. Perhaps his defiance has done him some good in Val Royaux.

"And I'm glad you did." Mal answers without much thought. She walks out of her prison like it's the first time she has ever had the opportunity for freedom. And it feels great to taste glorious fresh air, for the first time since her capture. 

She sees that the stronghold she's in has crumbled on all sides. There's fallen rocks from walls and roofs everywhere, and water seeps through the numerous cracks in tiny streams across the stone floor. There's a roof still standing right above her head, but she wants to see the sky. So she walks with a steady pace out into the cold rain to feel the fresh drops on her skin thirsty for freedom. And it feels wonderful. 

For a moment that's all that Mal can think about. The cold biting into her with the rain and gust blowing steadily through the broken fort. There's endless air above her head, and wide space she can utilise as she please. But inevitably, her next question grow in her mind until she can no longer relish in her bliss. 

Looking back at Mahanon Mal can see that he speaks with Bianca and Helga, though he keeps Mal within his vision. "But why did you come?" Mal asks him, loud enough for her voice to carry through the pouring rain.

He's still standing beneath the roof. Water drips off his uniform, creating a wet patch beneath his feet by the prison door. At Mal's question he locks his gaze on her and cross his arms. Looking stern and pleased at the same time.

"To get you all back." His tone is playful, yet doesn't open up for any arguments. His pride in these words culminates into a satisfied smirk. "Besides, there were rifts here. Something about the veil causing some issues." 

Mal wants to answer. Or rather, she has a range of questions to ask about what he just said as her mind is jumbled with all types of implications. 

First of all she didn't expect this. Mahanon wasn't supposed to come and save her group. The value he's gaining simply isn't worth the risk of having to fight through undead and Avvar to come and get them.

But it's the second part of his phrase that baffles Mal the most. He's calling the thin veil an issue, but a place riddled with corpses controlled by demons points to a large problem that needs to be solved. Either he's an idiot that doesn't grasp the dire situation, or he's simply overconfident. Downplaying the massive issue he has to deal with to keep Thedas safe.

Mal doesn't know what she'd prefer from her saviour. Neither ignorance nor a brash personality is good in any case. She just hopes that his new found confidence brings more good than it does harm.

A sharp cough calls from the arch above the entrance. Turning around Mal can see Solas staring at them both. He's as dirty and worn as Mahanon himself, and his staff is at least carrying half his weight. "It was more than just a few issues, but it has been dealt with as well as could be done. Mahanon made sure of that." Praise is not something Mal would expect from the stoic apostate. Yet it's the first thing she hears from his mouth after not having seen him since she left the Hinterlands. 

This is truly a day for surprise.

But he hardly answers Mal's questions. "But it couldn't have been just the veil causing problems. Something must have catalysed the demons to this side." Mal continues on. If there were rifts here it would explain the appearance of demons themselves. It would not explain why those demons inhibit dead bodies. For that to happen there needs to be a catalyst. 

Solas shows off a tiny tilt to his lips before opening his mouth to provide his answer. He doesn't get a chance to do so however, as the mage from before interrupts. She must have exited the stone prison without Mal noticing, and are now looking at Mal with a lot more care than before. "The scouts inside are all going to be fine." her attitude leaving no doubt about her words. 

"And you must be the apostate we set out to save." her dark eyes turn to stare straight at Mal. The confidence in her own power radiates off her person. She demands respect with her presence alone, but unlike normal privileged snobs Mal gets a feeling that this woman can back up her posturing should it be necessary. 

The woman is a mage for sure, but not every mage by far supports apostates running around enjoying their stolen freedom. Mal is well aware of that. And judging from the animosity in the woman's stare, Mal would bet three beers and a trusted steed that she just met one of the mages caught in the web of Chantry lies. One that willingly forsakes her own kind's freedom.

But she also looked at Gissur with her healing hands, and as such is deserving of Mal's immense gratitude.

"I suppose I am. Mal, at your service." And at those words Mal give a slight nod of her head to the impressive looking mage before starting to look around for stuff. She hasn't had a weapon in her hands since she was caught, and now that she's free she can hardly resist the itch for cold steel. The woman, Vivienne, makes her feel horribly naked.

She spots a few dead bodies lying around inconspicuous amongst the stone rubble. One of them she recognize as the huge man that busted Gissur's leg. His maul gives him away as much as the bearskin helmet heavily stained by blood. 

Mal's longing eyes rests at the maul for a moment. It's a good weapon. By the way the man handled it the weight should be perfectly distributed and easy to manipulate with practiced hands. Mal's fingers flex in response to her temptation to pick up the deadly weapon.

But Mal knows by looking at it that she can't. It's too heavy, and it needs her to utilize both her hands in a fight. That means she can't wield a shield, which simply won't do.

So turning back her gaze towards Solas, Mal continues her line of inquiry. "Solas. You were saying something about the thin veil causing issues." Mal continues. The question about the veil is still prominent in her mind, so her continued search for steel has to yield to her own curiosity. At least for now. 

All the pieces of the puzzle that is the Fallow Mire isn't revealed yet, and if the thin veil is tied to the rifts this could mean a whole new issue of deadly shit flying about that Thedas will have to deal with. "Yes. There were a few rifts here, but they were closed…effectively enough. The main cause of the problem was a single mage. She's gone now." Solas explains.

And Mal now understands. The last piece of information to tie all the pieces together. "She was the conduit. The demons passed the veil with her help. It shouldn't have been too difficult for her with the veil as thin as it is." the words flow from Mal's mouth as the idea forms in her mind. The veil seldom allows for spirits to pass without binding themselves to something physical. After all, the purpose of the veil is to separate magical energy from physical form. 

It's like a mage being separated from its body during the night, allowing them to pass into the Fade. But as soon as they wake up their energy binds itself back to a physical body, and they are forced back to Thedas whether they want to or not.

"Exactly. She allowed for the demons to easily slip into this land. There should be less issues with the undead now that she is gone." Solas finish just as Mal was thinking along the same lines. Without a conduit it's a lot harder for demons to pass through the veil, regardless of how thin the barrier has become.

Nonetheless, Mal knows that the mage must have chosen the Fallow Mire for a good reason. The thin veil allowed her this magic without utilizing much power. "Does the rifts cause the thinning of the veil?" Mal asks. Worry etched into her tone as she thinks about the implications. This magic used to cypher demons into the bodies of undead is vile in its purpose, and if the weakening of the veil makes it more accessible it could lead to a whole new set of problems on Thedas.

"Perhaps. I do not yet know." Solas continues with an airy tone. His focus evolves into one of consideration while keeping his eyes on Mal. "It's certainly something to contemplate."

"All the more important that we close the rifts then, and quickly." Vivienne continues as a way to close the conversation. Mal couldn't agree more. 

Looking back at Mahanon Mal can't help but think about how incredibly lucky they are to have him at their side, and how vulnerable they are to his whims.


	13. Chapter 13

"Damn. That woman's hot." 

"Who…oh, not the Enchantress again."

"Never seen a finer arse in all my life." 

"Her arse be damned. I wouldn't go near that shithole, and neither should you. She'd turn us into toads and boil us for supper."

The men outside Mal's tent is speaking in hushed voices, yet the leather isn't nearly thick enough to muffle sounds. This means that Mal hears every word. Lying awake in her cot at the Inquisition camp in the Fallow Mire, she thinks about her own experience with Vivienne. Immediately she agrees with the cautioned soldier that the circle mage is not to be trifled with unless one wants to loose precious honour.

But to Mal the most prominent impression is that Vivienne is someone who dislikes her on pure instinct. From Mal's own crude attitude far removed from noble behaviour, to her embracing the life of an apostate heretic, her chances of ever getting on the good side of the accomplished circle mage is second to none. Luckily, for Mal that doesn't seem to matter much.

Mal knows that Vivienne lives up to the crisp idea of pragmatism. So as long as Mal contributes positively to the Inquisition, there shouldn't be any issues. This fact was made glaringly obvious the moment Solas made the decision to point out the two women's similar styles of fighting. 

Mal remembers the exact moment her own scouting group and the Herald's entourage on their long track back from the Avvar stronghold, and Solas gave in to his need of showing everybody the extent of his intelligence. In his lecturing voice and a thinly veiled excitement he told everybody that Vivienne's fighting style of a Knight Enchanter was originally derived from the ancient art of the elvhen Arcane Warrior. A style that is eerily similar to Mal's own way of battling.

And of course he's right. Mal has previously sought the art of the Arcane Warrior with the purpose of learning. It has heavily influenced her way of the sword. The close quarter style helped her figure out how to best utilize her own disabled magic, something she desperately needed to learn in her early days. It was extremely useful when she had to learn how to disable her opponents with whatever skill and knowledge she had available. 

Mal remembers feeling cold dread running down her spine as she readied herself for the immediate retaliation from the Enchantress. Yet, all she could hear was Solas finishing his short and impactful lecture. There was no revenge. 

Not even a shift in magical energy from the Enchantress readying a spell. She simply settled for emanating harmless cold fury at being compared to a lowly apostate. Her cold eyes of hate followed Mal and Solas all the way to the Inquisition camp, yet their wellbeing was never in any danger. 

And as Mal's immediate panic settled, Solas's piece of information forced her mind into thinking.

Both this elvhen battle style and his knowledge of the true meaning of vallaslin are supposed to be lost to time. Yet Solas knows about them both. And if Mal's instincts are right then there's more in that head of his that should have been long gone with the passing time. 

Yet the main problem wrecking Mal's mind isn't the extent of Solas's knowledge, but it's the issue with how to deal with it. Preferably she doesn't want to deal with it at all.

Ignoring elven knowledge has worked incredibly well for her in the past. Yet she can't be certain it will work as well this time.

With these thoughts running through her mind, Mal gets up from her cot. It's still night time, but she can't sleep. She's been sleeping for way more than she ought to when she was captured, so it's not like her body needs more rest.

Walking outside she sees light from burning torches placed around the larger camp. It's illuminating the dark and damp soil covering the ground, and casting shadows at the red leather tents strategically placed around the swamp puddles.

Making her way over to a wooden canopy, Mal can see a single shape illuminated by a small brazier. It's an unfamiliar man relaxing against a wooden support beam. He's carrying the heavy look of a seasoned warrior, while resting his gaze on the pitch dark bog. A slight tension in his muscles convince Mal that he knows she's approaching long before he turns around to greet her.

"A bit early to be up." A distinct warmth in his deep voice makes it's pleasant appearance. 

"Couldn't sleep." Mal answers while positioning herself next to the stranger. The heat from the brazier warming her damp back. "My name's Mal. It's nice to meet you." She says with a friendly gesture.

"Blackwall. The pleasure's all mine." Then he pause. His curious eyes studying her for a short moment before he continues. "Say, aren't you one of those scouts the Avvar captured?". 

Seeing no point in denying the truth Mal nods. It's not surprising she's recognized. Their party's arrival today caused a full blown celebratory ruckus. It was the Herald's awaited return to the home camp that caused the collective joy. In addition, the threat of the Avvar is gone with the mission's success, and fellow Inquisition scouts were saved from the clutches of the enemy. 

The mood in this outpost camp were raised high this afternoon, and Mal was not able to avoid most of the congratulatory gestures and words of safe return. Yet it wasn't entirely unwelcomed. In truth, Mal couldn't help join in when the dancing started.

"Must feel good to be free again." Blackwall says, to which Mal answers with a soft smile and a short nod. Her eyes following his into the black nothing of the current night bog. 

Despite a dismal looking sight, it represents her newfound freedom. The void of nothing in front of her eyes signaling her precious ability to walk just about anywhere. "Yeah. I never manage to remember how much I appreciate something until I lose it." She answers in truth. Her dream of spending her days in idleness doesn't carry to being jailed.

Yet, despite the joy of freedom there's an aftertaste of worry. It was the Herald himself that had come to set her team free. In Mal's eyes their release is not worth the risk of his life.

"All the more important to protect what's precious to us when we still have the chance." Blackwall answers. Mal suspects the words of wisdom from his lips is actually there just to carry the conversation, not to give advice. Maybe he's starved for some company, just like Mal. 

"Is that why you're here with the Inquisition?" she asks. Protecting seems like something he likes to do.

"Isn't that why we're all here? To do the right thing for the sake of saving the world. If not we'd best do like all the sane people, and run in the opposite direction." A snort leaves Mal's nose at his surprising answer. The ironic truthfulness in his statement only serves to make her smile wider. Running away was what she had decided to do herself before Effie forced her to stay.

"You mean that the world is relying on the insane to survive. It's not boding well for our success." Mal continues the joke, extracting her own snort from Blackwall's bushy face. His short bursts of air can barely be heard in the cold night, yet it brings as much warmth to their canopy as the brazier itself.

At that moment Mal starts to think that two strangers joking about the world ending is as close a sign of insanity as she can get.

"Oh, don't say that." Blackwall continues. "The world has always relied on brave self-sacrificing individuals, and it's been fine so far. Just look at the wardens." This time Mal laughs out loud, not able to contain herself when being compared to the most miserable saviours Thedas has to offer.

"The Wardens? The people that collectively forsake their own lives so that the world can live on, while giving up all hope of enjoying the world they rescued from doom. Yeah…we might yet reach the level of the Warden's brave insanity." as Mal says this she can see a single eyebrow raise above Blackwall's eye. The deepening lines on his face is partly hidden behind his thick moustache. In a way his features only seems to enhance the sharp light from the brazier, illuminating the humour in his blue eyes. 

"We might have to get to their level of stupidity to actually succeed in what we're trying to do." Mal continues.

"At the very least we are the people that still has some hope, as opposed to those other poor suckers. Isn't this the better choice?" Blackwall asks rhetorically. But Mal recognize wisdom where it's due. Rather than his optimism being a compulsion, he's chosen to hope for a better future. He wants to live with faith instead of succumbing to hopelessness.

"And it's not as if our hope is unfounded." Mal answers. "Mahanon is here, and he's our salvation if I ever saw one. He'll seal the rifts and save the veil for all of our sakes." Jokes put aside, Mal means every word coming out of her mouth. Her world isn't doomed to end just yet. 

"As long as we can make sure he stays alive that is." she continues as an afterthought. Her own hope hinges on her saviour's success, and she'll do her damned best in helping him fulfil his part. 

"Oh, give the boy some credit. He's done well so far." Blackwall says. Seemingly not sharing Mal's worry about Mahanon's fragile life. 

Seeing Mal's hesitation, he continues to explain. "We need him out here. He's the Herald of Andraste, and right now our only symbol of success. Him guiding this Inquisition on its proper path is the only thing that will keep it together." Blackwall looks at Mal like he's expecting her to understand, yet his point is lost on her. It's not Mahanon himself that's going to save the veil. 

It's his hand that they need. A limb of hope.

But Blackwall doesn't give up on explaining his views just yet. His determination showing through his expression. "Wherever Mahanon goes there's always some poor sod that sees the light, and joins our fight. And we need every single hand we can get." Crossing his arms, he turns his head facing up as if in thought.

"So…he's our recruiter for the cause?" Mal asks in disbelief. Sending Mahanon out to talk to farmers and merchants for their cause is a risky practise. Especially when the risk involve their own salvation. 

Blackwall goes quiet for a drawn moment before giving her a confirming nod. "In a way, he's the beacon of light guiding us all together. 

Take this camp for instance. It has grown quickly since it first set up. The men are working diligently to bring in the resources and intelligence that we desperately need. The roads were cleared for the horses and carts faster than I thought possible from these poor sods, and with the roads this outpost is an immense resource. The Herald is their motivation, and him being here saving your group from the Avvar inspires them further.

Say, you're not religious are you?" Blackwall asks as a way of ending his short speech. His words of Mahanon's significance to people is still ringing in Mal's ears, so his sudden question catch her by surprise. 

"No. I'm not." She answers after a moment of thought, to which Blackwall nods knowingly. "I wouldn't have to explain this if you were." He says, more as an answer to himself than to Mal.

But his question also brings her clarity. His confusing words finally coming together in her head.

"So what you're saying is that religion makes it necessary to risk Mahanon's life. We're parading him around for the sake of gaining the following that we need." Mal's summary of Blackwall's words is treading near her issues with blind faith in deities. The whole notion of faith in the Maker is ridiculous, and currently is causing them all harm.

"It's like you said at first, Blackwall. It's just that it's religion inflicting insanity on people. Faith is creating the hope we need for people to join our cause, and Mahanon is their conduit for hope." Mal sighs while shaking her head in resignation. 

She's starting to think that it would be best to have everybody think exactly like _she_ does. Fight against the veil, and keep Mahanon locked away were he can be kept safe until his time comes. It would make things a thousand times easier, and a lot safer.

"No…well, yes. But not exactly." Blackwall seems confused. The tables having turned around on them both. "You really don't like the Chantry, do you. " He sighs. A hand coming up to her shoulder in comfort. Mal doesn't want to imagine what reason he could be giving himself for her dislike in his religious organisation.

"The best we can do now is just to keep Mahanon safe. Don't let him risk his hand without a good shield leading the way forwards." Mal answers, to which Blackwall hesitantly nods. "We can agree to that, at least." Mal can feel his fingers give a slight squeeze at her shoulder when he answers. A comforting gesture that Mal knows to appreciate.

"Can't protect anybody on an empty stomach though. Let's go and eat. The morning is here." And looking out into the bog Mal can see that Blackwall is right. There is a slight change in colour. The signs of a blue sky is barely visible, but from her time in the bog she knows it's as good as it's going to get down here.

\---------------------

Mal doesn't realize how hungry she is until she set her eyes on the steaming breakfast at the campfire. Together with Blackwall she digs into the grout with vigour. 

Bianca and Helga eventually shows up as well, rubbing the sleep off their faces before they spot Mal and her new companion. Helga's yawn widens to a big toothy smile, while Bianca gives a short wave of her hand before walking over to sit next to Mal. 

"You're up early?" Bianca says while getting her own bowl of steaming stew. She's opting to look at the food with the same longing gaze as Mal did just a few mouthfuls ago. Mal thinks that their time in captivity might be the culprit of both their sudden fondness for food.

"Are you coming back with us to Haven?" Bianca takes a moment to ask when her mouth isn't preoccupied with food. The words making Mal feel worried. "I haven't heard anything." Mal answers. Her spoon slowing down on its way up to her mouth as her mind becomes preoccupied. 

"Bianca, Thryn, Gissur, and I have been called back. Got the message yesterday evening." Helga says with a wondering tone. The question of why Mal isn't included in that order doesn't leave her lips, but it doesn't really have to. It's obvious they're all thinking the same thing anyway.

"Did your orders say why you're going back?" Mal asks, hoping for some more details. She's only done this one mission with this group of scouts, but they work well together. It doesn't make much sense in splitting them up, as good teamwork is essential for any successful mission. The Commander should know this better than anyone.

"No. Just that the message came from the Nightingale. It didn't say anything else." Helga continues. 

Mal has heard about the Nightingale before, but never met her. She's the left hand of the divine, and a powerful spymaster. A tricky person with very questionable morals. Yet as devout and protective of her faith as a mother is to a child. In other words, she's not someone Mal wants to meet. 

"By the way, how is Gissur? Did the healers say anything more?" Mal asks instead, changing the subject to something more pragmatic. She probably won't get anywhere asking the twins about the motives of a bloody spymaster anyway, regardless of how much she wants to know.

At Mal's question both the sisters get a mirroring bittersweet look on their expression. "She'll keep her foot, as we thought she would. Yet, it's so mangled they won't be able to put it back together the proper way. She'll never use it to walk again." Mal understands the twins ambivalence. She feels conflicted herself. Being an invalid is a hard life, especially for Gissur whom has a strong will to follow her own convictions. She's not one to sit things out. 

But when Gissur was first injured they weren't sure she was going to survive at all. Mal knows that all in all, Gissur making it through this with just a mangled foot is good news.

"She'll have Thryn helping her out. It'll be alright." Mal says trying to sound comforting. "And I'm sure the Inquisition will find her something to do." Blackwall chips in, having been silent so far. 

Mal glance at him, and is for a moment grateful for his comment. Despite not knowing the full story, he must have pieced together enough from the short conversation so far to understand their worry. He's a kind soul, Mal thinks.

And Mal also believes that he's right, thank the Creator. Gissur has got a good head. Fighting with swords luckily isn't her only talent. The Inquisition should have a use for her skills in coming up with pragmatic solutions. 

A sudden wet glob of a sound draws Mal out of her thoughts. It's coming from the void like darkness behind Blackwall. It's like someone just stepped into an unseen puddle of mud and rain water, drenching their foot in the process. 

And just when Mal expects a string of curses in self-resentment, a light and cheery voice greets them instead. 

"I just blocked your new orders Mal." the voice belongs to Mahanon. To Mal, it's as if the sound itself is smiling. The very essence of youthful joy reach her ears.

It's like the voice is trying to convince her that the content of the words are good news. Trying is the key word here, as Mal has some serious doubt of Mahanon's ability to rational thought and judgement.

Mahanon proceeds to take a seat next to Blackwall. As he prompts his left leg close to the fire, Mal can see the wet mud going half way up his long calf. The mess doesn't seem to deter his good mood in the slightest, as he doesn't hesitate when reaching for a breakfast bowl with a green glowing hand. At this point Mal's convinced that his persona of cheery youth is a central part of his character, as any decent person would at least be a little grumpy at having to dry their pants first thing in the morning. 

Helga and Bianca gives an awkward half bow from where they're sitting at the other side of the fire, not yet having been able to rid themselves of their awe at being in the presence of the Herald. Blackwall on the other hand greets the herald with the comfortable kindship of a half smirk. What convinces Mal of their friendship however, is the way Blackwall isn't shying away from the physical closeness that would have been impossible between strangers as they sit shoulder to shoulder.

The time to ponder the newfound friendship between Blackwall and Mahanon isn't now though, as Mal's still trying to decide whether Mahanon blocking her orders is good news or bad. 

"As much as I hate to disappoint Leliana's need for people right now, I need your expertise Mal." Mahanon finally explains. His eyes stares at the fire as he speaks. He starts to sound almost apologetic, giving Mal some fuel for her worry.

"The trip to the Mire is just a detour, in truth. We're on our way to the Storm Coast. There's a group of scouts that's missing." Mal's thought immediately turns from the wet bog of the Fallow Mire to the constant downpour of the mountainous coast. The biggest difference between the two places isn't the biome, but the underground. The Deep Roads isn't quite as deep up south as they are here in the Mire. 

"I was hoping you are as good at rescuing our people as you are being rescued yourself. Twice now you've been able to stay alive long enough to be saved by our forces, so I'd prefer if I had you with me." Mahanon continues. Thinking back on her being saved as a missing scout, Mahanon was her saviour in both those cases. By his own logic he should be the expert. She's not about to point that out though.

Mal knows that if Gissur hadn't lost her leg then Mahanon would have undoubtedly asked her to join him instead of Mal, as Gissur was the commanding officer at both the conclave and here in the Fallow Mire. But now Mal has a perfect opportunity to help keep Mahanon safe. She's never been one to give up on fortune due to her own guilt. 

As Mal agrees to her new orders, Mahanon looks relieved. A moment later a furrowed brow makes its appearance however, as his eyes shift back to Mal. "I promised a worried cook that I'd save you and bring you home. I'm only able to keep half that promise." Those words receives a chuckle from Mal's cold lips. She can hardly picture it, but Effie must have gone to Mahanon to ask for Mal's rescue. She must have been terrified, talking to the Herald himself.

"She'll be grateful nonetheless." Mal answers, knowing her words to be true.


	14. Chapter 14

Mahanon's little entourage is in a hurry. The Inquisition itself is doing everything they can to make sure the Herald gets on his way as fast as possible, including keeping the number of his companions to a minimum and accompanied with strong mounts.

Only Blackwall, Mal, Solas, and Vivienne travels with Mahanon. And even then Vivienne will leave them when they reach Redcliff. Mal hasn't found out why, but then again she doesn't really care. The delicious promise of Vivienne's eventual departure is enough to satisfy Mal's meagre mind. 

Coming up further north and away from the bog, Mal can already notice the lighter skies and thickening lush forest. The sharp nip in the air would have made her shiver if it weren't for the days of stubborn sunlight keeping her warm while she rides. 

While the roads the Inquisition diligently built makes their travel fast, there's a few detours as Mahanon needs to complete the duty that he carries alone.

As long as the great tear in the sky remains, rifts will continue to open across Thedas. That means demons continue to make their terror upon the people who lives here, and Mahanon, of course, aims to save as many as he thinks possible by closing the demon's path into the world.

Mal would claim that she hates the rifts. After all, it would only be rational as they likely represents her doom. The demons pouring out of them has threatened people she cares about, and will likely claim their lives sometime in the future if the gateways aren't permanently closed.

Yet the rifts and demons have become a welcoming sight in her travel. Cutting down enemy after enemy, with the swift movements of her sword working in synergy with her body, it's like a meditative bliss. Her head empties with every thrust of steel against the demons. Creeping thoughts of worry about Effie and Gissur who are back at Haven disappear, and her compulsion of helping a damned religious cult is forgotten and replaced by her simple wish to cut and kill.

In those moments she feels like she was made to fight. Her hands feels empty without her fingers clasped tight around steel, and her body is naked without the heavy weight of armour protecting her skin.

And she's not the only one who radiates in battles. Solas never lose his stone face as he demonstrates his arcane powers, but it's not the magic itself that impresses Mal the most. His mind for tactics proves his abilities more than any conjured spell ever could. 

He influence the battles with subtle magic. The demons face magical traps and tricks, as glyphs appear at strategic chokepoints and the distortion of nature's reality disorients their senses. Not once has he cast an ill-timed spell, or cost his friends their effort. He is always in control of the fight. Like a puppeteer moving the demons to the command of his fingers.

And Mal is grateful for it. The memory of him casting a basic ice charm on her shield, allowing her to smash a Rage demon to little pieces with her strength alone still makes her thrum with frenzied excitement. 

In battles, if nothing else, she feels a resonance with the elvhen loving elf. Her trust in his abilities makes her glad he's fighting by her side, as it allows her to focus on her own efforts instead of worrying about her other companions. 

This, and the fact that he manages to not appear in her dreams, makes her glad he's coming with them to the Storm Coast. Mal can't help but wonder how he's managing to avoid this though, as she's not able to do anything herself to prevent nightly meetings. It's a conundrum with the obvious solution of simply asking. 

Yet Solas is still an elf loving know it all. Asking him anything would breach Mal's own core values, so her cowardly solution is to simply accept his nightly gifts of absence as an unexplained miracle.

And Mal isn't the only one who likes having Solas in their company. Solas and the Warden gets along well, and frequently interrupts the monotonous sounds of hooves on dirt roads with their lively conversations. Mal hadn't expected that, but then again she could never have imagined their common ground to be war. 

They discuss the destructive forces of battles, and the tremendous repercussions for warriors and society both. The motivation and the necessity of terrible and bloody conflict frequently finds its way into their daily talks. Mal doesn't join in herself, but she can't help but listen intently.

One comment in particular stuck in Mal's mind, "As long as someone yearns to reap the benefits of winning, while believing himself capable of that victory. That's all the reason he needs to start a conflict. Suffering are often created by someone so familiar with war they have forsaken their morals. Those people are the true monsters society should fear." The pensive words spoken by Solas resonates within Mal's own soul. 

It's one of the reasons she never wish to enter war herself to begin with. The irony that Solas shares her view of warlords isn't lost on Mal, given the old gods he so dearly miss.

But the moralities of war aside, tonight is the last night with Vivienne in their party. The circle mage has been mostly quiet, yet her presence keeps reminding Mal of a constantly displeased matron. Her attempts at teaching Mahanon proper etiquette amongst nobles for his future endeavours might be necessary for the Herald, but to Mal they are extremely boring. The droning on about the strength of position and the power of political play effectively numbs her brain. 

At times it's so bad it puts a stop to Mal's attempts at running theoretical discussions on what is best served at a Ferelden inn; Dust Town's Tears, or Gatlock hidden reserve. Normally she's desperate to have a bushy bearded and well-travelled warden's opinion, especially considering the Order's infamous celebration parties. 

So while the newly constructed dirt roads change to the ancient stone remnants of dwarven paved craftsmanship, Mal's mind is set on tomorrow. It's a day where she'll see Redcliff again, the biggest trading centre of her home region. From there Lake Calenhad provides them with fast and easy travel with sail boats going up north. 

Mal grimes while thinking that she'll miss the riding almost as much as she'll miss the Enchantresses' company. Her inner thighs feels like they've been beaten thoroughly enough so as to be forced to migrate towards her outer hips. 

Nightfall approach quickly. They decide to set up camp early, and it doesn't take long for the skills and habits of the travellers to create a camp that meets their basic needs. Two dark tents surrounds Blackwalls roaring fire, and a young ram, skilfully skinned and cut by Mahanon, is roasting in the flames. 

Mal can't wait to get a taste of the delicious meat. It's the first fresh catch she will enjoy since before the conclave. A day that seems like it happened ages ago.

Solas and Blackwall continue their discussion of war, and when the conversation finally moves on to the practical defeat of demons, Mahanon becomes animatedly intrigued. Vivienne also chips in with her own experiences from the Fade. A hag notwithstanding, she's a smart woman. Her advice is sound. 

However, when Solas tells Blackwall the demons have a one track mind, Mal actually starts to laugh. "Did the demons names not make that obvious?" Solas gives her a raised eyebrow, and a glance only interpreted as a request to elaborate. Getting herself pulled into the conversation at last, it's not difficult for Mal to comply.

"It's not that hard. The terror demon always aims to frighten you. It'll pop out of the ground and knock you down. Use its claws to pierce and pull you in. Its screams will seek to take over your mind, but you must not let it. If you keep yourself from falling for its traps, it's fragile to your attacks." Mal starts, while absentmindedly poking the not-yet finished ram with her long charred stick. The flames comes up to cover the sliced animal for a short second.

The entire party looks at Mal now. While Mahanon and Blackwall is attentive to her words, Vivienne is showing her doubts at the advice. Her disbelief in Mal's abilities is obvious, and frankly understandable from her point of view, but luckily Mal's advice isn't targeted towards the distinguished Enchantress. So Mal simply continues.

"As for the rage demon, it'll always go for frontal attacks. Stand your ground, and don't feed its anger by uselessly swinging your sword around. Keep it occupied, and wait for a mage to quench its flames."

"Is this how you survived the conclave?" Mahanon asks. His voice is quiet, but he still easily manages to cut through everyone's attention. "You were up there for three days, fighting demons continuously before we came. And after…you-"

"I wasn't alone." Mal interrupts hurriedly. She knows he's about to mention her facing the Pride demon at the temple itself. But really, there's no need to do that. She never truly risked her life, so his regrets isn't needed nor wanted.

"Yet every single survivor in your scouting group claim they owe their lives to you. Your knowledge must have served you well." Solas says, as a matter of fact. The teasing tone hiding behind his words can only be a trick of the mind, Mal thinks. 

She quench the urge to sigh, recognising the lost cause she's facing. Mahanon's wide eyes makes it clear to Mal that downplaying her previous actions isn't going to work. She wish she could just tell him to stick his praise where praise is due, but she manages to hold her tongue.

Instead she simply meets Mahanon's stare head on. "All the more reason for you to listen closely when I tell you how to kill demons." If Mal can't hide her skills, then at least they should be taking advantage of her knowledge. Getting herself killed by those evil spirits too many times to count, someone ought to at least gain something by now. All the better if her knowledge increase the chance of the precious Herald staying alive.

But of course Solas isn't satisfied by Mal's simple admission of skill. "One has to wonder…," the slow drawn out words create enough time for Mal to close her eyes, sigh, and wait a bitter sweet moment for the disaster that she is sure is going to gush from his mouth. "what does a warrior with your calibre gain by farming? Surely there are better ways to occupy your time than tending to animals and ploughing fields." 

The nerve of this bastard.

"Does the great cities and armies throughout time manage without food? While farming is such a distasteful life for an accomplished apostate in rags, it doesn't take much brainpower to realize that no civilization can survive without our work." 

But Mal's venomous outburst does not have the desired effect. Solas isn't transformed to an embarrassed and apologetic mage. Instead, Blackwall looks awkwardly at the roasting ram, Vivienne looks conceited, Mahanon looks worriedly at Mal, while Solas has a growing creepy smile forming on his face.

"No one claims that the result of farming isn't invaluable, Mal. But one has to take into account the number of people able to perform the task. Farmers aren't valued because they can easily be replaced." Solas is interrupted by a sudden cough by Blackwall, who looks like he wants to protest. He doesn't though. No sounds comes from the mouth as it opens at Solas, who looks positively smug. 

"Accomplished warriors, leaders, and positions of religious importance wields the power to keep Thedas intact. Their loss can be a tremendous force of change. I'll use the recent Divine's demise at the Conclave as an example." His grey eyes looks straight at Mal. She in turn has a different voice repeating similar words in her mind.

Didn't Effie say something like this back at Haven?

Yet she's not one to opt into conflict. Not getting herself involved has been a mantra in her life. The many wars she's seen, bloody and terrifying, has not changed her mind about it all.

"And what about you Solas. Wandering the woods, looking for clues about a past that's long gone. You're not any better than me." Mal counters. Her argument is poor, and is an admittance of how she lives her life without taking any responsibility for what happens to Thedas, as long as she walks free. But then again, she won't stand for a hypocrite. 

"There are many ways to change the world. Fighting is but one." Solas simply answers. It's an answer that takes Mal entirely by surprise. She feels her mouth open, like a fish out of water while her mind scrambles to form a coherent thought about what Solas just implied.

Luckily the ram finishes roasting as Mal gathers her thoughts. Blackwall hands her a limb covered in a hard crust, with its juicy insides revealed by Mal biting into it. 

The conversation quickly moves on to something else, thanks to Mahanon and Blackwall starting a lively discussion on how it's possible to develop an obsession with nugs. It leaves Mal to have Solas's words churning in her mind by herself, words that will roam around in her head whether she wants them to or not.

\------------------

Outside Redcliff Vivienne finally takes her polite departure. The remaining party gets a boat, as the water allows for much faster travel than roads. Lake Calenhad is so vast it looks like an ocean, yet the lack of harsh weather and salty water is a pleasant reminder of the lake's subdued state.

The sloop they get is tiny. A single mast stands high in the middle of the boat, with two triangular sails going in both directions. The construction is fast, but leaves little space for the four remaining people travelling in the small vessel.

Mal's not complaining. She doesn't mind the sharp smell of spirits betraying the former owners' habit of drinking while sailing. For once, she can praise her own elven build, as Blackwall struggles not to bump his head into the wooden boom carrying their sail.

Besides, the time spent sedentary in a cramped space finally opens up an opportunity for Mal. One that has made her fingers itch for days. 

"Do you need any help with your shirt?" she asks Solas. His shirt has a broken seam by the shoulder. Mal knows it's only a matter of time before the hole grows, to the detriment of the entire garment.

After a surprised pause, Solas answers "I'd be much obliged." He quickly takes off his shirt and hands it to Mal's eager hands. She's glad. Tears like this are meant to be fixed. The many days spent riding behind Solas and his hole has been taxing on her nerves. 

More importantly, it leaves Mal with an opportunity to think. Solas accuses her of hiding from the worlds issues when she has a power to help, and in some ways Mal has to agree with him.

Helping people in ways other than fighting is noble. Mal could even see it making her happy, as she fulfils a purpose for the sake of others. But on the other hand most conflicts grow to violence at some point. Freeing the mages from the circles is the most recent example, and the Exhalted march with Andraste is another famed lessen etched in history. Mal is scared she'd only get herself involved to a degree of causing Thedas more pain than she could live with. 

A farmer's life is the easiest for her. Probably it's the happiest as well, despite Solas's words. 

With the shirt in her hand she opens a tiny pocket at her belt. There's a well-used sewing kit hiding within the small leather compartment. She learned long ago to always bring the useful kit with her, especially when travelling at length. Holes and tears can get inconvenient quickly, and at worst can cause serious practical issues. 

But after threading the needle and fiddling with the fabric, she discovers a different problem all together. Every stitch made to this shirt is secured with its own tiny knot to increase the durability and flexibility of the seam itself. The technique is incredibly difficult, with each knot needing the same exact tension. The handiwork sitting in Mal's hands is superb, and she can only guess that it's made by one of those fancy seamstresses by hire. 

The original creator definitely has skills far surpassing Mal's own amateur stitch work, damn it.

Her eyes move over to the elf that is currently busy covering himself with a thick woollen blanket. If her magic would function outside of her skin, she's sure lightning would shoot out of her eyes to zap the shit out of the half-naked prude. 

By now she's certain that annoying her is simply a part of Solas's personality, and the shirt resting in her hands is an extension of his frustrating self. 

Taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, Mal gets to work. An amateur seam is still better than nothing at all. She's sure the shirt itself will thank her for its extended life, even if the owner won't be as grateful as she had hoped.

So while the boat sails on blue waters, Mal is bent over trying to sew and tie every single stitch across the seemingly too-long shoulder seam. It's tiring work. Every stitch require her to focus, and she's lucky that the calm water doesn't need her attention. Though she does listen to the discussion happening right around her ears. She realize that Mahanon must have paid attention when Solas and Blackwall were discussing the virtues of being a warrior, as he's now eager with his own questions. 

"I mean, someone fighting at the frontline is already impossibly brave. Constantly risking their lives like that, how do they even decide upon that life?" the question piques Mal's interest. There's true curiosity, but also awe in the Herald's voice. 

"It depends. Some people like the battle itself. Seeking dangers takes many forms, and front line fighting is one method." Solas explains slowly. "Some only want the results. Whether that's riches or peace, living the life after a victory is their goal." Blackwall continues where Solas left off. It's not the first time, nor the last Mal thinks, that these two show similar thinking.

"But what about Cassandra? She's sworn and oath to fight, yet no one yearns for peace like she does." Mahanon sounds solemn. Like he's pitying the Seeker. Mal can't understand the sentiment at all, as Cassandra has chosen to fight herself. Unlike the many who lives a hard life that's been thrust upon their shoulders, she has the ability to opt out of her choice. 

"She has chosen an admirable path. Protecting the world she loves according to her own justice is indeed selfless. Though I do not think she'll remember to enjoy the peace she aims to create. In that manner she has my regrets."

As Solas talks, Blackwall changes course while giving Mahanon a slight nudge. Mal feels a soft tug as the boat slowly reacts to Blackwalls push at the tiller, signalling their new direction.

"You know, I first thought Cassandra was the one to lead the Inquisition." Mahanon answers. There's a strength to his voice Mal hadn't expected to hide under his pensive words. "I don't think she wants to lead though. There's a limit to her judgement…and she knows it." 

Mal almost comments her relief at not having to follow the orders of a bloody Seeker, but she doesn't say anything. Somehow she doesn't think Mahanon nor Blackwall will appreciate her disdain for the Chantry army of mage slayers.

\-----------------

The conversation about the Inquisition leadership continues. Mal suppose she should be listening more closely, but after Cassandra was dismissed as an alternative, the higher up politics within the religious cult doesn't interest her enough. Instead she focuses on finishing her snail-paced seamed repair.

Bent double over her work while tying and securing the last stich, Mal notice a sharp shadow overtaking the small boat. 

Looking up, she sees a tall tower blocking her view of the sun. It's the Ferelden circle tower. The stone walls are raised impossibly high, as if the tower itself is set to defy the nature around it. To Mal, the structure seems more unnatural than anything magic could ever conjure on this great body of water. 

On instinct she feels cold dread wash through her body, before her rational mind catch up.

The tall metal doors reflects a green hue. There's a rift. The sickly colour of the Fade is all the more apparent due to the dark shadows covering the entire stone platform, all the way out to the small wooden docks.

Three Templars stands in front of the rift. They are clad with full plated armour, including the standardised Templar helmet hiding their faces with metal. Even with their weapons drawn and ready, Mal can see their anxiety. It's not hard to imagine what it's like for them to continuously watch and wait for demons to appear on this side of the veil, signalling the next wave of attack they must defend. Her own experience at the conclave standing before rifts isn't something she wish upon anybody.

The sail boat closes in on the tower. A Templar notice them and moves to the dock, exhaustion and relief greets them as he takes off his heavy helmet. Instantly Mal knows him as Terry. It's a boy she won't easily forget, considering the troubles he made for her in his younger days. The young days before he became Terry the Templar.

"Thank the Maker. We've been holding them off for three days now, but we can't go on for much longer." the Templar tells them as he helps Mahanon step onto the docks. The wood creaks in response to his hasty steps. As if sensing the urgency, Mahanon raise his hand towards the rift. His focus goes entirely to the angry tear. Green light then connects his hand and the rift, and the rift immediately responds.

Something's wrong. Mal feels it in her bones.

"Wait!" Solas yells, but it's too late. A terrible roar assaults the small plateau, warning them of what's to come. The connection between Mahanon and the rift breaks, and three fiery demons slides out of the gaping rift. Terry quickly dons his helmet and lifts his shield. His full plated uniform prevents him from betraying any emotions, but his slow pace and assured footing tells the tale of a calm and alert state of mind.

Mal has no time to be impressed. She needs to act.

Jumping out of the boat, she lands just in time to see a huge cone of fire blazing across the Templars. Half the platform is covered in a violent fire. Mahanon, who was just in front of Mal's wide eyes, is luckily only grazed by the impact, and quickly runs to the back of the ranks to escape the blaze. His wide eyes searches the small boat he just came from.

Then the fire finally stops. Three figures reappear, and two are still standing against their demon attackers. The third is on his knees, almost like he's praying. His chest is moving in the rhythm of his heavy breath, and his gaze is fixed forwards. Mal is reminded of the specialized Templar armour, with their many enchantments protecting their owners against every kind of magic drawn from the Fade.

Turning her eyes towards the rift, Mal sees the orange and black molten monsters clad in green light. The foremost demon leans forwards. His black eyes are fixated on the kneeling Templar. He spews fire and lifts his clawed hand, showing off his terrible rage.

Mal starts running. In a race against the demon, Mal aims for the targeted Templar. He gets on his feet when he realize what's happening, but his sluggish movements betrays his condition. Too tired to face what's aiming for his life.

The stone under Mal's feet makes its blazing heat known through the leather of her shoes, but it doesn't stop her from running. Just in time, she raise her shield to block a clawed hand from reaching a heavily armoured shoulder. Mal can feel and hear the heavy claw scraping along her shield going off towards her side, deflected from its intended target.

But there's no time for Mal to feel smug just yet. Her job isn't done.

While her speed saved the Templar, it does have its consequences. She runs past him, unable to stop her feet from moving too fast. The demon on the other hand, stands before the weakened man, raising its furious claw in a second attack, one that will hit its target now that Mal isn't in a position to prevent it.

Mal makes a split second decision and falls towards the demon. Her feet no longer keeps her balance, but that is a sacrifice she's willing to make. Instead she thrusts her shield hand down, driving the tip of her trusted metal into the platform's heated stone. The shield biting its way into the ground allows Mal to change direction in a flash, moving to the back of the fiery rage. 

Her unarmed hand shoots forwards, reaching up and into the demon's core at the same time as she cast a powerful cooling spell. The rage roars its anger. Black eyes turns on its head, like they're floating on the surface of the molten fire. Mal feels only satisfaction when she meets its gaze.

She can't stop a small smile from forming on her face. The demon is too late. Already the cooling spell takes effect and the demon starts to shrink. Its rage is quickly withering down into nothing, and the hot flames disappear into the ground.

The Templar turns his armour clad head towards Mal. She can't see his expression, but it doesn't really matter. She's got no time for him anyway. Turning her gaze over the stone platform she sees that there's more work for her to do.

The two remaining Rage demons fights with Blackwall and the two Templars, one of which is Terry. Blackwall uses his shield effectively. He must have listened to Mal's advice the previous night. There's also the tell-tale heavy smell of anti-magic effects rolling off the brawling group, no doubt the Templars doing their best to defeat the fiery demons.

Then a cone of ice hits both Rage demons at once. The flames stops moving on the surface of the demons as the clear ice encompasses the forms. Blackwall, ever the opportunistic warrior, sees his path to victory and bash a frozen form with his shield. His entire body weight goes into the movement, and the results shows his might. 

The Rage demons breaks apart completely. Pieces of orange surrounded by cold ice falls to the ground and shatters further. Another demon is dead, while the last face its demise at the hands of two able Templars.

Mal lowers her shield, as she won't have a use for it now that all the demons are dead. Glancing over to the boat she sees Mahanon with his bow in one hand, and the other raised towards the rift. A focus Mal is now familiar with mar his usually soft expression, as the green energy connect his hand and the rift once more. 

Then Mahanon screams. A single throat ripping yell resounds through the area. His connection to the rift is broken. The Herald doubles over a mere second before a strong blue barrier springs up around the failing form. Yet the scream doesn't stop.

Mal whisk her head around, panic makes her pulse race as she searches for the cause. Mahanon's scream is excruciating. She quickly recognize the sound as something caused by a nightmare, and experience tells her that his body must still be intact. No. This is worse than just some physical wound.

Frantically looking around herself, Mal sees the cause of Mahanon suffering partly hidden behind the still heaving Templar. A naked demon. Purple skin covers the evil spirit draped in the shape of an alluring woman. Black smoke slithers out from the stone under its feet, and long horns twists backwards from the top of its head. A Desire demon.

"Here!" Mal yells. Her voice strains as it must be heard over the Heralds agonizing scream. There's a real chance Mal can't defeat the powerful demon alone, and will need her companions help.

She draws her sword. The demon isn't far away, and Mal's legs start to move in rapid motions towards the smiling creature. There's lust in the dark eyes as the demon stares at Mal's quick advance. Its hand comes up in a single lazy gesture, and Mal can see the magic dancing in her hand as she chants for yet another spell.

The muscles in Mal's legs starts to slow down against her will. She force her magic to her legs, but the sluggish cold that creeps into her body is quickly revealed to be beyond her control. A glance down gives away the cold crystals forming on her leather pants, crystal she knows comes from inside the fabric. Desperately she draws on her fire, yet it does nothing to stave off the cold. 

She won't reach the Desire demon. The magic is beyond her ability.

Looking up she sees Terry running towards the demon, just like Mal had done a few moments ago. His hurried steps brings his sword closer to its intended target, an action fuelled by his brave desperation. 

The demon's smile just widens. It turns to directly face the Templar threat, shoulders rolled back in a display of its confidence. Its lips opens to show a perfect row of white teeth, and Mal's eyes fills with dread as the tiny muscles tightens in the demon's throat.

An otherworldly high pitched scream fills the entire platform. The sound pierce its way into Mal's mind. She can't think. The last thing she sees before her eyes stops giving her vision is Terrie's halting and crumbling form falling towards the floor. The freezing sensation of her legs doesn't register in her mind anymore, and her head empties of all thoughts. The entirety of her being is locked into the demon's consuming scream.

But then the noise suddenly stops. Mal blinks. Her eyes works hard to regain her lost vision, and her mind slowly brings her back to the present.

She sees the Desire demon's teeth clenched together. Its black eyes looks frantically towards the boat while betraying its owners desperation, as its long legs tries their best to run to safety. But it's too late. An arrow has pierced the chest right were the heart would have been. It's reach is deep. The deadly arrow is at the core of the magic using demon, and it doesn't take long for the black billowing smoke to swallow the demon to its demise. 

The cold starts to let go of Mal's legs. She sees Terry slowly getting up from his fall. His arms shakes as they're forced to move his weight, reminding Mal of her own heavy body. 

Looking around herself Mal can see that once again Mahanon's hand is raised high. Green energy connects him to the rift, and this time the rift reacts the way Mal dearly hopes it will. It closes. From one edge to the other the green tear shuts until it exists no more. 

The silence at the front of the tower doors is pure bliss. Blackwall is the first to end the stillness, as he hurries towards Mal. Mahanon finally finds his way onto the stone platform from the boat, while clenching his bow too tightly in his grasp. 

"Are you alright?" Blackwall asks. A scared expression meets Mal's eyes as she looks at him. Casting a soft spell she feels her own legs start to heat up. As the ice on her pants melt, the frozen limbs starts to send signals of heat burning too hot. 

"I'm fine, thanks." Mal answers with a rasp. She's always fine.

Over by the boat Solas is kneeling in front of Mahanon. The Herald is heaving heavily, with beads of sweat scattered across his face. His relieved smile tells Mal that he's going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: Am I laughing all by my lonesome self when I write jokes suffered by Mal, or do I share these moments across time with my readers?
> 
> There's no Beta. So if I discover a mistake I'll go back to fix it.


	15. Chapter 15

A day after the ordeal at the circle, Mahanon and his company reach their destination. The short ride from Calenhad docks to the Inquisition Camp at the Soaking Wet Coast is a sharp reminder of why Mal prefers to use carriages instead of putting her bum through the ordeal of being placed on an animal. 

The Storm Coast lives up to its name. The landscape is able to rival the Fallow Mire in terms of keeping her wet, something Mal had conveniently forgotten in the time she spent avoiding the place. She is incredibly grateful for the Inquisition's tents and their ability to keep her body and equipment dry. Her armour needs maintenance, and her raw skin needs a break from the constant rubbing against soaked leather.

Currently, Blackwall and Mal are munching on warm stew provided by caring Inquisition soldiers. The sharp light from an oil lamp at their table produce huge black shadows on the leather tent walls, creating a sharp contrast with the open ocean view outside. Strangely enough, the confined space makes Mal feel content and relaxed. 

They are waiting for word from a group of mercenaries. The haste they've made during this trip has paid off in Mal's mind, as the prize is the nice and relaxing break from continued duty while they wait.

"How much do you like sharp pieces of metal?" Blackwall comments. Bits of boiled carrots have caught in his beard, and Mal chokes down the answer of 'not as much as the fur on your face likes stealing your dinner'. Mal smiles as she looks at her companion, knowing that his teasing question isn't totally out of place. 

Terry the Templar told the group how he remembers Mal from his childhood, and how she still gives him nightmares about knitted underpants. His parents weren't good at the intricate shaping of garments, a skill needed to fit underwear around a child sized groin. They always asked Mal for help. Unfortunately, the sad truth is that knitted wool is itchy. 

Terry's eyes always filled with terror whenever Mal had her needles ready to work. She still remembers vividly how she was forced to hide from the kid's ingenuity, as he had an extreme aptitude in coming up with plans of sabotage. Unfortunately, his plans usually succeeded against Mal's own careful defences.

"You know, Terry once used his own warm piss to soak and heat my knitwear, causing it to felt into a useless lump of hard yarn." Mal says, a look of contemplation colouring her expression. "I always wondered if me threatening the kid after this is what made his parents send him off to the Chantry." 

"It wouldn't surprise me," Blackwall answers, giving Mal a long stare "if their decision saved Terry from losing his willy by your hand." Mal wants to protest. But in all honesty, the moment she found the stinking mess inside her pantry the idea had popped into her head. While she's sure she'll never deliberately dismember a child, her own thoughts sometimes tries to tempt her against basic decency.

"You need a new pair of undies as well? I'm sure I can make you some." she threatens instead. Blackwall raise his hands in a sign of defeat, ignoring the fact that Mal didn't bring her knitting supplies, and therefore can't make reality of her threat. "Now, there's no reason to go that far."

The two continue to joke and send jabs at one another, distracting Mal from her thoughts. Though, occasionally Mal sends a glance towards the space just outside their own tent walls, where she knows scout Harding is having a serious talk with Mahanon. She doesn't envy him his responsibility. Though at least she can alleviate some of his worries by being ready when he calls for her help.

Solas on the other hand, disappeared as soon as Harding told them they had to wait for the mercenaries to arrive. Not even his footsteps are left behind for them to track where he could have gone, which only serves to bolster Mal's curiosity. The knots in her stomach almost makes her wish she didn't care.

"I was wondering more about your shield. It would be better to fix that instead of my undies." Blackwall continues once Mal runs out of stories of knitwear terror. 

Casting a glance at her shield held up by a hastily constructed weapons rack, Mal feels a pang of regret. Three deep claw marks mar the otherwise slick and beautiful front. More than the aesthetics of her shield, Mal is worried about the marks creating weaknesses in the metal. They're deep enough to potentially cause problems next time she needs to rely on it to keep herself intact.

Sighing, her sad eyes leaves the broken weapon to give Blackwall a knowing look. "I'd fix it if I could. But unless you can whip up a forge, my shield will remain as it is." Mal grabs her tankard filled with water and downs it in one gulp. She almost wish this was the Fade so she could track down a spirit of Valour, as those spirits are better with weapons than any smith made paragon that Mal's ever met.

"Don't worry. I'm sure you're resourceful enough to figure something out if things get dicey. And if not, the rest of us can keep you safe." 

Mal smiles as she looks down at her empty tankard. "Thanks." the word almost comes out as a whisper and is filled with gratitude. Blackwall is a good man.

Then Mahanon push the leather walls to the side, revealing his ever-smiling face to the two warriors by trade. "We've got to go. The mercenary group has sent word they're by the shore." None of them lingers at those words. It doesn't take long to put on their freshly polished gear and trudge out of the muddy camp in the name of their duty.

Mal doesn't ask about Solas. Just like a cat, she's sure he'll show up when he deems it right.

\-----------------

Steep cliffs are etched into the landscape on both sides of Mahanon's group. Previous rockslides leave heavy scars on the mountains, cumulating in boulders poking out from the green and wet thicket. A thicket that isn't surprising given the amount of water available for the greedy green bushes.

Deep grooves and loose stone makes for a traitorous path, but Mahanon proves himself an excellent guide. His past as a nomad must have honed his skill in these conditions, to Blackwall's and Mal's great relief.

But then the Herald suddenly jumps up a steep boulder. His hand goes to his back to unlatch the bow from its strap, with his eyes never leaving the horizon as he moves.

"What is it?" Blackwall asks, his question mirrored in Mal's mind. 

They both look up at Mahanon, who in turn doesn't answer for a few short moments, seemingly busy staring into the wilderness. Finally, he looks away before jumping back down to his companions. The bow clenched too tight in his hand, while his large eyes convey his haste. "The mercenary group is by the coast, fighting. We've got to help."

Thankfully the coastline isn't far away. With Mahanon leading their party out of the shrubs, the view that opens up feels like a curtain lifting before Mal's eyes so that she can finally see beyond the toes of her feet. 

There's a full on battle on the shore. Mages litter the field, scattering their colourful and deadly spells. People clad in non-matching armour do their best to thwart and kill the many mages.

It's messy. There's a number of misfired spells flying without purpose around the spectacle. Loud yells of either surprise or fury mixes with the sounds of steel littering the area.

More importantly, the rapidly moving bodies makes it impossible for Mal to tell who's winning. The mages utilise their fade step to varying success, while the armour clad fighters follows the spell casters in a hurried chase.

The weird cowls wrapped around the mage's heads luckily makes identifying Mal's Tevinter enemies rather easy. Stepping forwards onto the wet sand and rocks, she draws her sword.

She runs towards the mayhem. The target is no other than the closes cowl wearing mage she sees. It's a human woman running from a well armoured guy who does nothing to hide his own glee. The mage is screwed, and her hopeless expression tells Mal that she's well aware of her fate. Even if Mal decides not to interfere in the mage's death, the countdown of her heartbeats have already started.

But of course Mal won't ignore her desire to punish Tevinter mages operating on the wrong continent. With the mage turned towards her immediate threat, Mal has the perfect back in front of her, undefended and unaware of danger.

Her sword hand rests at her hip. Fingers tightening around the wrapped hilt, signalling that she's ready to move in for the kill. With a final step forwards, she moves her hip in tandem with her sword, creating a perfect arc with the deadly tip. It slash through the mage. Creating a fatal diagonal cut through the body. What remains create a thump as it lands, with a large amount of blood soon seeping out onto the ground.

"Hey, that was mine!" The guy yells. Frenzied eyes keeps their sights on Mal, while his sword is ready for any danger. "Too slow." is all the response Mal deems worthy before moving past the mercenary. There's no time to entertain slighted feelings if Mal wants another piece of self-fulfilling justice.

But a single glance at the remaining battle tells Mal that there's very little chance for her sword tasting more blood. 

Just like any close quarter battles Mal has ever seen, opposing people move together in a jumbled mess, and at times they're indistinguishable from each other. 

The mercenaries fight like mad men. Yet, every single one of them knows their companions movements to a tee. Deliberate steps around the field makes sure their backs are always covered by someone else. Their targets are always chosen in terms of who poses the biggest threat to their companions, eliminating any danger to themselves. 

Mal would not only be unnecessary if she got herself involved, she'd become a liability to the mercenarie's teamwork. 

So she simply steps back. Watching the beauty of certain victory unfold in front of her eyes. Quickly the mages numbers diminish, while not a single mercenary falls to the enemies futile attacks.

The last mage falls to a Tal-Vashoth. The Tevinter mage is skilled in having survived thus far, and fling several elemental spells towards the grey skinned man. It doesn't help though. Even Mal can hardly believe her eyes when every single spell is met head on, with no attempts of avoidance or deflection. He simply doesn't care. His great axe is lifted high in anticipation of cleaving a body. A last desperate attempt of fade-stepping fails, and then the mage dies.

This is a strong mercenary group. And judging from the laughter rolling off them as they all casually check each other's wellbeing, it's a happy group as well.

Mahanon approach the horned Tal-Vashoth. Wide eyes in awe stare at the big man, but at least there's no fear in his careful steps, for which Mal has to thank small miracles. The boy has grown a lot in a short amount of time.

"I wonder if our Herald will recruit the mercenary group. Their display was certainly convincing."

"Fuck!" Mal yells. A few heads turns towards her, but when seeing that there's nothing to be alarmed about, the mercenaries goes back to their own post-fight habits of back clapping and cask smashing.

Solas appears next to Mal, unable to hide his gloating smile. Mal brings up her hand to her chest, feeling her own rushed heart beating to its panic induced flight. Nug twisted balls, he scared the shit out of her. 

After having calmed down somewhat, Mal opens her dry mouth to ask the most obvious question. "We're recruiting mercs?" the raspy voice does nothing to hide her fright, but her honour in the eyes of this guy is long gone anyway. There shouldn't even be slivers of respect left for her, so it's not like him catching her ignorant and unawares even matters anymore.

"Yes. It's the reason the Herald came here in the first place." 

Which means that Mal's own search for missing scouts won't be accompanied by their saviour. She hadn't thought of that. And she can't decide whether it's a good thing or not.

Yet, when looking at the slightly anxious Herald, she sees his steel eyes are fixed on the large Tal-Vashoth. His mouth is drawn tight.

"So he's going back to Haven then." Mal continues, searching for answers she had never thought to ask for previously. Really, she can be such a fool sometimes.

"Redcliff first. We need to recruit the mages to close the breach." Solas's words makes Mal pause with the implications. So far they've been consolidating the Inquisition's grasp on Ferelden, doing their best to make the organization grow in power and numbers. But the mission in Redcliff is different. 

They're moving forwards. Closing the damned rupture in the veil is within Mal's grasp, not just a distant future anymore. That's a strange realization.

"I'm guessing you're going with him." Mal answers, turning her gaze towards Solas. She wants to say that he better be ready, as the young man needs every abled helping hand he can get, but Solas's expression halts her words before they has the chance to leave her mouth. 

She notice his skin taught over his cheekbones, a sign of stress. Berating might not be what he needs.

So instead of telling Solas to do his damned duty, she voice her worries. "Just make sure he stays alive. Don't make him take unnecessary risks in Redcliff. I'd rather have him well and healthy than the mages support if it comes down to it." Solas simply nods. His solemn gaze is set on Mahanon, making her think that Solas will do his best for their Saviour regardless of her own words. Probably he understands the consequences of failure better than anyone, including Mal herself. 

That thought is as scary as it is comforting.

\---------------

"This is amazing. The thaig beneath this quality stone has to be something akin to indestructible." a dwarf named Rocky comments, as a group of mercenaries and Mal climbs the incredibly steep cliffs. 

Mal can't help but wish Varric was here. At least he would agree with her in that the hard labour made by the uneven ground going almost straight up is not a marvel. 

Certainly the water having eroded the brittle stone, leaving the hard and unyielding rocks is dramatic, but it's Mal's strong opinion that the stupid stone leaves a lot to be desired for those who has to travel in the impossible landscape. 

The reason they're climbing the cliffs is entirely pragmatic. At the top Mal is hoping for the amazing perk of vision. And finally, at the end of her difficult climb, she gets the reward she seeks. While gasping for the air being thrown harshly in her face by the furious wind, Mal can see everything. From the loud sea with its white foaming waves, to the long river going up into the mountains far beyond the shore.

She has a small pack of mercenaries at her heel, including the Iron Bull. It's what a worried Harding gave her before sending her on her new mission, rushing her along in the hopes that Mal would succeed in finding the missing scouts. Mahanon, Solas, and Blackwall must have already left for Redcliff by now, leaving Mal behind.

She envies them. Most likely they'll be sailing across lake Calenhad, to get back to Redcliff as soon as possible. The calm sea and a strong smell of liquor is oceans away from what Mal currently has to deal with.

She's well aware that duty can't help but treat people unfairly, but at least she can seek comfort in her silent complains. Taking every pissing challenge of discomfort with a smile is well beyond Mal's abilities, and she knows that very well. Though, she does have the jolly company of The Bull to keep her happy. The man is brilliant.

Looking at the big pile of muscles, Mal remembers Mahanon's words before she left the campsite. 'Keep an eye on him.' is what he said, though she can't fathom why Mahanon would tell her to keep Bull safe. He's strong. Strong enough to look after himself and others should there be a need for it, and judging by the way he moves he's well aware of his own capabilities. 

Mal wouldn't be of much help to the big guy anyway, but at Mahanon's words she simply nodded. It's not her job to question the great wisdom of everyone's new favourite Herald. 

Mal will do what she's told, no questions asked. And in the meantime she'll stare at the sculpture of his muscles, wondering how it's possible for one man to be that big while still keeping himself functional and flexible. Maybe someday she'll gain the courage needed to ask. 

Currently her command is engrossed with their own jolly songs of strong and able warriors with flaming red hair and enormous breasts. Mal strongly doubts their claim of her breasts having the power to knock out a golem in a single swing, and her thighs having the strength to turn stone into gravel. Their discussions of the armour plate needed to protect a torso like hers is as unrealistic as it is passionate. Mal loves every second of it.

Yet, she has to turn her mind to the task at hand. She's not the first brilliant mind to have thought of using the cliffs to her advantage, which is what she had counted on when starting her journey. 

A cottage with the perfect viewing point, still standing with three and a half walls and most of its roof intact, is the target of Mal's exhausting climb. The scouts she's looking for might have left a clue up here. 

Walking straight into the sorry construction, Mal hears Bull call after her. "Careful Mal. Wouldn't want to pull your corpse out from the rubble." He's got a point. The weather up here is harsh, so this structure doesn't have much life left before nature will reclaim its building blocks. 

Inside its damp. Harsh light penetrate the many holes in the structure, and the smell is one of rotten wood and yeast…and decaying bodies. "Bull." Mal calls. She needs a third eye to help her take a look at what she's seeing. 

The uniforms are recognizable, but Mal is hesitant to say that the pile of corpses by the side wall is the scouts she's looking for. Mostly, her hesitation comes from the fact that she doesn't want them to be her missing scouts. She really doesn't want to go back to Harding with bad news. The lead scout waiting by the Inquisition campsite deserves better than that, having begged Mal to find her people, acting well beyond professional decorum. 

Then Bull thankfully appears at Mal's side. His steps on the failing wooden floor are loud inside the small cabin, signalling his presence. "Well, that settles this mission." the words are to the point and devoid of emotions. They make Mal feel bitter, with a ball of regret forming in her stomach.

He bends his knee, which in turn creates a sharp snap, but he doesn't seem to mind. Reaching a calloused hand he starts roaming about in the pockets of the dead. The creases on the clothes are too unnatural, and Mal thinks it likely that they've been tampered with after the soldiers died. Bull is doing what Mal would have done if she had the stomach to do her duty.

Which means that Mal is simply watching Bull work on the damp ground, not even attempting to help him in his work. Eventually, he pulls out a sheet of paper, wet and tied with a leather cord. His stone face doesn't betray any emotions. Even his eye remains unblinking as he stares at Mal, handing her the fruit of his labour.

Taking the paper from Bulls waiting hands, Mal undo the cord and starts reading. She upholds a cool exterior, though inside she's feeling her chest stiffen with icy apprehension.

"They want the Herald to come with the crest of Mercy to their stronghold. They're challenging him." she says in a monotonous voice, fighting back the cracks threatening to make an appearance. She feels angry. The terrible irony that one cultist group challenge another, were both are obsessed with the same war hungry prophet is as harmful as it is unnecessary. This is unfair, most of all for the dead caught in the crossfire, and for Harding who has to deal with her guilty pain when she learns of her men's fate. 

These poor scouts fates were simply a statement from the bloody Blades. An unneeded proof of their egoistical will to carry out the cruelty they call mercy. 

"We're done here. And…thanks Bull." Mal says and leaves with soft steps. Because she doesn't want to bring down the bloody cottage onto poor Bull. After all, it's not his fault they found the scouts dead. 

Despite her feeling of guilt, this isn't anyone's fault. Those people have been dead for a while already, probably since Mal was still in the Fallow Mire, which means there's no use in brooding. It won't help the scouts now, and least of all Mal and her command.

"We're going back to the camp. I hope you liked the steep climbs." Mal tells the impatient people waiting outside. There's a spring in her voice, as she works to get rid of her mood. 

But then Mal sees something move at the corner of her eye. Something that doesn't belong in a thicket of green. A sudden and sharp pain pierce her sword arm, making her body buckle under the pressure of the surprise and pain. Before she gets a chance to look down on her agonizing limb, she hears a battle cry from the forest.

The people under her command waste no time in turning towards the attackers. Pulling out their swords as they move, they carefully position themselves for action. 

"Chargers, protect the clearing!" Bull roars, having left the cottage after Mal, hurrying the last steps out into the open air. He quickly unlatch his great axe from their straps and charges the enemy, meeting them head on without any pause.

The Chargers pull back, following their leaders orders while at the same time covering his advance with arrows and magic. Luckily, Mal knows that this is a group that knows how to get through an ambush in one piece. From their jolly jokes, to their immediate response to orders, she can tell that they're valuable.

All in all, the Chargers are professional. Yet, the advantage of surprise is not to be trifled with, which means that there's a lot of work to be done if Mal and the Charges wants to come out of this alive. 

Mal unlatch her shield. Flexing her fingers, she quickly decides that her injured arm isn't strong enough to wield a sword, so she leaves her weapon at her hip. The enemy is frenzied. Already a few of them has fallen to the Chargers ranged attacks, revealing their lack of training and experience. 

Yet, even with the poor training the bandits have an upper hand. There's mabari dogs amongst their foes, and those don't need a lot of training to be dangerous.  
They are bred to kill, replacing experience with their ferocious instinct. 

Mal starts to run. Her shield is placed in front of her, and rightly so as she hears the sound of metal arrows hitting her trusted defence. And even before she gets a chance to cover a decent amount of ground, a dog sets his small eyes on her. 

Deciding in an instant, the giant pile of muscles rush forward to meet Mal in the middle of her charge. Its huge paws digs into the dirt with its every thrust. Getting closer and leaning low, Mal can see the thoughts running through the animal's mind. It has already decided how it's going to kill her. 

Mal would have smiled if she could have spared a moment to do so. The dog is smart, but that will also be its undoing.

The dog is a single jump away from Mal when it finally change direction. Going left, it position its great jaws at her hip. Jumping up it aims for Mal's unprotected neck, expertly taking advantage of her small blind zone. It's a move that usually kills quickly and effectively, but fortunately Mal is prepared.

Having lifted her shield, Mal times her movement to the dogs thrust. Already she had cast a spell, ensuring her arm and shoulder carries the necessary power and weight needed to move her shield just as she intends. 

Her defence is as safe for her as it is deadly for the dog, and is impossible to carry out without the aid of magic. 

Driving her shield down, Mal sees the moment the tip of her makeshift weapon hits the dogs neck, crushing its way through skin, bones and arteries. The dog crash into the ground, no sound coming from its mouth except the wheezing of excess air forcing its way past the liquid mess of its throat. 

However, Mal's shield was never meant to be used as a blunt force weapon. The awkward angle, and earlier weaknesses caused at the circle tower left the shield to a broken fate. With Mal's move, the handle is ripped out from her grasp, and a deep tear splits her shield in two from the bottom up. Standing above the dead dog, Mal cast a single glance at her shield, lying broken by her feet.

She would have felt a pang of regret, if she had been given the chance.

A tremendous force knock her to the ground. Hard stone and dirt meets her unsuspecting back, knocking the air out of Mal's lungs. And before Mal get a chance to understand what hit her, she feels sharp claws digging into her body. 

Opening her eyes she looks deep into the gaping mouth of a mabari dog. Rows of white teeth promise pain, while the repugnant smell from its heated breath assaults her nose.

There's no time.

Mal feels her heart race as her panic takes over her body. Instinct drives her injured arm deep into the space between the jaws threatening to close. No spells and barely any armour is there to protect her sorry limb, but it's the best she can do in this damned situation. 

Feeling the blunt teeth at the back of the dogs mouth close around her arm, Mal hopes her limb can withstand the pressure of the mabari vigorously trying to close its deadly mouth.

In pulses it push towards her, trying to reach her most vulnerable skin. She can see the white around its small eyes as the dog look down at her, yearning for malice.

Mal fights to clear her mind, which isn't easy given the infernal beast digging into her. She needs to cast a spell. To kill the damned dog she needs to carefully manipulate the energy from the Fade into a helpful and practical effect. If only she could stop focusing on the saliva dripping down on her face promising death. She needs to _think!_

Then suddenly she's flung to the side. Her chewed up arm follows the dogs sideways, bringing the rest of Mal with it. She hears a sharp yelp from the rabid beast, as the sharp teeth release their grip. 

The dog is dead. A huge axe is lodged into the cavity of its large body.

Mal lifts herself to sit on the ground. Her breath is heaving, and her eyes search the area to get a grasp of what's going on. 

The dead lies scattered. Both people and dogs alike. Thankfully, she notice that not one of the bodies are people she recognize, and would have given a sigh of relief had her lungs allowed it. Bull's Charges are all standing in a strategic defence, not engaged in any fights. The ones who are not carefully looking into the shrubs for more attackers meet her with looks of resigned pity. 

"Hey there, take it easy." Bull says, kneeling next to Mal. His voice is calm. Soothing Mal from her shock. 

She feels grateful. Not only for Bull having saved her from pain by killing the assaulting dog, but also for wanting to take care of her now. So she smiles at him. A simple grin of gratitude, met by a strained expression of worry. 

Blood runs down his shoulder from a small but deep wound, though he doesn't seem to care. Instead, he's opting to give his entire focus to Mal. It's the act of someone with a heart if Mal ever saw it.

She looks down to her own sword arm. It's red with blood. Chunks are missing, yet the damned arrow that first hit her managed to stay mostly intact, piercing her muscle through and through.

She cast a cooling spell on her arm. The numbness takes over the pain almost immediately, thank the Creator. Grabbing a hold of the arrow, Mal snap the tip off the thing before she pulls it out. Blood follows, yet the relief of not having the foreign object lodged into her is immense. She can finally start to heal.

"A mage, huh." Bull says, clicking his tongue. The soothing voice entirely gone, and Mal immediately starts to miss it. 

There's always more room for comfort in her life, even though she doesn't strictly need it. Being spoiled by others gives a good feeling. It's all about the little pleasures one can garner in life, even the guilty ones. Besides, after being assaulted by a dog double her size, she feels entitled to a little bit of self-pitying. 

"I should have figured that out when you decapitated that dog with your shield. You know, I thought I did you a favour when I ordered my men to protect the clearing." Mal can't help but let out a sudden puff of air, weakly resembling a chuckle. 

His accusation is layered with light relief. His eyelid partly closed as he calmly studies her arm slowly piecing itself back together. "Running towards a flock of charging mabari isn't something I thought you'd do." 

Mal nods, still focused on her arm. Looking back to the fight there's definitely room for her to improve, she has to agree to that. "Thanks Bull. Killing the dog definitely saved me from pain." 

"You can thank me by agreeing to a spar. I don't think I've ever seen a mage as well trained as you are in close quarter fighting." he says slowly while handing Mal a waterskin. Grabbing it, she greedily downs the content. The cool water does wonders on her nerves.

Nothing creates a friendship like a favour in battle. Mal definitely owes Bull to follow through with his request, and luckily it's easy to comply with his favour. After all, she has her own agenda concerning the helpful man.

"Sure. As long as you teach me how to grapple someone three times my size."


	16. Chapter 16

"There was no need to give him the bruise of his life. He was eager to help, without your violent persuasion," Mal says as Haven's walls makes their appearance, signalling the end of their travel. She's berating Bull, something she's done for days as they've been on the road.

After finding the scouts at the Storm Coast, Harding sent them to the outskirts of the Bercilian forest. They were looking for a merchant selling bees in jars as an effective weapon, and as ridiculous as it first sounded, it turned out to be a recipe for a bottled inferno. Job well done on the Inquisition to get a hold of this information.

And it didn't take them long to track him down nor talk him into giving them his template. Only, Bull's way of handling things were far from kind. Nor was it anywhere near helpful. 

When the merchant tried to barter for more money, Bull didn't hesitate in lifting his giant arm, fist pointing straight at the poor man. Letting the limb hang for a small second to give the merchant a chance to realize what was about to happen, Bull smashed his nose.

The sound of broken bone, and the resulting flow of blood soiling the shirt of the shivering merchant made Mal rethink her opinion of The Iron Bull being smart.

"I thought you'd be nicer to him. Heal him and stuff, to make him like you and give you the recipe for free," Bull defends himself. Like Mal's own stupidity is an adequate reason for acting the way he did, "not continue to scare him half to death." 

Mal, as Bull just pointed out, hadn't helped the situation at all. Instead of focusing on helping the terrified merchant recovering from his blow, she'd panicked and tackled Bull. Using what Bull had taught her about grappling, she'd promptly nailed him to the ground, cussing loudly along the way.

It was Dalish, one of Bull's crew, who used a bit of people skills and a soft hand to help the beaten and scared man come back to his senses. Bull and Mal both kept themselves in the background during the negotiations, praising themselves lucky for not having ruined the mission with their antics.

As Mal approach Haven's gate, a soldier regards them in a lazy demeanour. Barely holding himself up with the support of his spear, he looks like the type of soldier that shouldn't be trusted to do his duty. Knowing exactly what comes in and out of the village gate demands keen eyes, but he doesn't even bother to try. 

Yet, after having studied Mal and her group for a good minute, he stretches his spine and approach the group, heading straight for Bull with purpose in his strides.

"The Nightingale wants to see you." The decisive words reminds Mal of a tranquil. It's the appearance of a yawn that convince Mal that he's simply tired.

The Iron Bull grabs a hold of the small number of reports he has written, and that Mal herself has hastily composed as a summary of her missions. Dismissing his troop with a short order of joining his remaining men, Bull leaves their company. Which means that Mal has the rest of her day to herself. 

No orders nor duties getting in the way of what Mal craves the most in the whole world.

\-------------------

Eiffie isn't up for beer. She's busy dealing with the organized chaos that is the Inquisition kitchen, feeding a village that is way past the capacity of residents. Luckily, the capacity problems have arisen from Mahanon's success at Redcliff in having recruited the mages. The good news, together with the fact that Mahanon is safe and well contributes to Mal's hope for a future.

It also means that Mal has no reason to complain when she's ignored, as that would be entirely irrational to Effie. Instead, she can entertain herself with meaningful activities, contributing to the success of the Inquisition goals in the process. 

She needs a shield. Outside Haven's walls she finds the smithy, haphazardly constructed and with a noticeable draft.

It's brave, really. The small cabin they have available isn't big enough to house the forge fire, with all the different equipment needed for their continued operation. The open air provides the workers with the space and cold necessary for comfort, but at the same time a mountain gale could put an effective stop to their crucial work. 

Mal walk over to the few people at work. Long leather aprons protect their linen tunics against the hammer and anvil's wayward embers. Black sot coveres most of them, yet Mal can still see patches of glistening skin soaked in sweat. The people are hard at work, creating the equipment necessary for the fast growing organization. It's a hopeless task they're combating, to provide everything that is needed in Haven in time for its use. 

Yet, Mal can help in their impossible task. She needs a new shield. And instead of piling more work onto the smith's back, Mal can make her own metalwork. 

Approaching the grimy man currently slitting something looking vaguely like a maul, Mal assumes he's the head smith. The yellow metal at the anvil is losing its colour, and without looking away from his work the man calls out to Mal. "Get the bellows." 

And she does.

Not one to deny people being used to obedience, Mal grabs both handles and starts pumping air into the fire at a fast pace. Black charcoal covers the forge, with a yellow glow poking out at the apex. The blacksmith push his metal into the heat assertively, yet he's not fast enough to prevent some of the hot embers from leaving the fire. Embers Mal is working hard at producing. She's already starting to feel her own sweat pool underneath her clothes, a reaction to the fast activity of her arms.

When the metal is finally hot enough, the blacksmith pulls it out. There's no hesitation in his swift work as he continues his slitting. Soon, his hard work is rewarded by his slitter poking through the premature maul.

"You're not a servant, are you," the blacksmith says. His dark eyes finally finding an opportunity to look away from his anvil. Mal, whom has already dropped the billows, answers. "No, I need a shield." 

She tries for a light tone, to counteract the annoyance she's sure the stressed out blacksmith must be feeling right now. "If you can give me some copper alloy to work with, I'll make it myself."

The blacksmith gives her a long stare before pointing towards the cabin. "If you destroy any of my instruments, or waste materials, I'll maim you so that no one can call you knife ears again." 

That insult is new. People have threatened to cut off her ears before, yet no one has done it quite so creatively. Mal suppose the comment is made due to the smith's love for his instruments, and lending them out feels wrong and difficult. 

After all, if he's as racist as he sounds, he wouldn't have agreed to lend her his instruments in the first place. 

"Thank you. I'll be careful," she says with an innocent smile, grateful for receiving the means to make her new shield. She'll need it sooner rather than later if her past with the Inquisition is any indication of what's to come.

\-----------------

"Most people are afraid of the smith. He's not known for his compassion," Varric says as the sun is saying her goodbyes. Not that it will turn dark for a while yet, it's just that the mountains are so incredibly tall that they block out the sun prematurely. 

Seeing her friend come to greet her, Mal shows off her shield. It's made of Blue Vitrol, and has a dark colour painting the perfectly round shape. It's light, and is therefore agile while still being a good enough instrument to keep her safe. Hammering out the metal took hours, while being carefully scrutinized by a paranoid smith. 

But the end result is more than worth the hassle.

"Isn't she beautiful, Varric," Mal says while carefully caressing the shape with a light hand. Unlike most shields, there's no decorative images or colours painting the front, but that doesn't mean it's any less useful. 

Yet, Varric doesn't look convinced. A frown pops up on his forehead as he contemplate Mal's pride and joy. "A buckler? I'd thought you of all people would want something bigger." 

Varric's words notwithstanding, Mal is confident in her work. "Size isn't everything, it's all about application." 

A sigh leaves Varric as he shakes his head. Eyes coming up to give Mal a long stare before he finally tells her the reason he's here. "Your friend is worried about your nutrition. She's held off a meal fit for nobles at the tavern." That sounds like Effie. Mal can't say she's not disappointed that her friend won't meet her, but it's understandable given the amount of work needed to be done.

But before Mal gets a chance to leave the blacksmith, having strapped her buckler to her back, Varric stops her in her tracks by grabbing a hold of her grimy hand. A look he's been giving Mal since he came still haven't left his expression. It's like he's worried about her. "Did you really spend the last 20 years in the Hinterlands, knitting underwear for future Templars?"

Mal nods, a smile painting her face as she answers, "Yeah, the best years of my life." And it's true. Maybe not in the literal sense, but apart from the year during the Blight, Mal was happy. A carefree life filled with predictability, just the way she likes it.

Varric follows her through the gates of Haven. Inside, the streets are buzzling. There's even some merchants having popped out next to the village walls, trying fervently to service their many customers. Most of whom are mages, Mal note. They're selling clothes and books, even some herbs and potions are switching hands in exchange for sovereigns, silvers and bits. 

Mal runs past it all. The tavern isn't far away, and soon she enters the hot steaming house with its very own buzzling activity. 

Approaching the bar, a working man Mal has never seen before spots her, and puts a liberal plate of food at the bar top. Mal loves it. There's a bun filled with lard, next to the entire left side of a chicken well fried. Her mouth waters just by looking at the beauty she has the privilege of digging into. 

Varric sits down next to her. Two tankards of water appears by their side while Mal is busy focusing on getting her teeth to chew through the salted chicken skin. The water comes just in time for when Mal gives up her endeavour, and just swallows the skin whole. Immediately she starts struggling to get the tasty delight out of her windpipe. 

"Mal, in your opinion, do you think Solas is right when he claims Mahanon can close the breach with the help of the other mages?" Varric asks as Mal finishes her coughing fit. She shakes her head while looking at Varric with exasperation. "Of course he can. Where's the doubt coming from?" she asks in return. Varric's worry doesn't fit in with what she thought she knew about him. 

"Just thought I'd get a second opinion is all. It never hurts to make sure."

Mal snorts while reaching for her bun. Varric's worried tone doesn't need to be there, in her opinion. "If anyone knows anything about the veil it's Solas. Trust him, is the only valuable opinion you'll get from me." Mal smiles. The Inquisition should know how lucky it is for the opportunity to get Solas's invaluable help. Without it they would undoubtedly be flailing into their own failure.

"You know, I didn't expect to get reassured of Solas's skill when asking you, given the animosity you've shown earlier. Personally, I thought you would know more yourself." 

"And why would I know more about the veil than Solas? Most mages have no idea about the Fade, and I'm no different." Despite her having studied the veil, Mal has never grasped its nature. Its magic is too complex for her comprehension, so she gave up a while ago. 

But maybe…she could ask Solas to teach her some of what he knows? So far she's sworn to keep away from all elvhen, but considering the giant hole into the Fade, maybe it's time to swallow her pride and stop behaving like an idiot. 

Though, it's always easier said than done, to stop doing stupid things.

"Maybe you should tell Leliana that." Varric answers, which makes Mal frown. Why would the leadership care about Mal's lack of arcane knowledge? Solas's impressive mind should be much more interesting to them, as it is with Mal. She can't contribute for shits to what they're all up against, unlike Solas.

"She's the one outside the chantry door, isn't she?" Mal asks, in which Varric immediately nods. "That's the one. She wants to ask you about the Iron Bull anyway. Your descriptions of his prowess and how much he loves his men isn't what she was looking for in your reports." 

Mal use the few moments she has by ways of swallowing the rest of her chicken to think about Varric's request. She can't think of anything more she can contribute to her opinion of the Iron Bull. Mahanon made the right choice in getting quality for money in terms of the mercenary company's abilities.

She assures Varric she'll go to Leliana tomorrow. Tonight, her stomach is too full and her body too tired after weeks of travelling, to do anything other than sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Maybe Mal lied. 

She wasn't too tired to drink Bull's Dragon Piss when he offered. And miraculously, neither did she become too drunk to not fervently defend Varric and his valid complains at being excluded from an archery competition. Mal thinks there are many reasons to discriminate, believing in Andraste's holy tits is one of them, but having a claim to beautiful Bianca is not. 

Finally going to sleep and waking up in the Fade, she expects to see spirits of Valour, Knowledge, Faith and Justice. This is all due to Mal's beliefs that the religious themes of Chantries and memories of sisters have contaminated Haven for years. Even an Envy demon wouldn't have been surprising, but luckily it looks like Haven has steered clear of religion's most infamous companion. 

What is surprising though is Solas staring at her. His arms are crossed as if he's been waiting. 

He's surrounded by walls of stone and broken spires. It almost looks like the raw Fade, but Mal knows it's the broken history of Chantry politics being reflected in the scenery. Solas almost looks like a fallen God amongst the rubble of his empire, with statues and holy symbols scattered on the ground at his feet.

He doesn't say anything upon seeing Mal, instead opting to study her closely. It feels like he's trying to see through her, and somehow, it's embarrassing. Mal feels her face starting to heat up under his heavy gaze and quiet composure. 

But Mal being Mal, she's simply too impatient to wait for the stoic man to start the inevitable conversation. Remembering her desire to be friendly, she opts for a positive tone. "Solas…I wanted to thank you for keeping your promise. Mahanon came back from Redcliff in one piece, and for that I'm grateful." 

"I wasn't much help. He managed mostly on his own," Solas answers stiffly. Part of a great wall has collapsed, leaving big square rocks on the ground. Looking away from Mal, Solas finds a seat amongst the debris. His body looks comfortable. Long legs are stretched out in front of him, and his neck is perfectly balancing his heavy thoughts. 

There's more on his mind, that much is obvious. 

"Do you want to know what happened?" he asks. The question is making Mal nervous. Almost like its leading her on, and she feels compelled to nod. A single quick movement of her head, her eyes wide with concern. Something doesn't feel right. 

"While in Redcliff, we were met with magic that affected time," Solas starts. It only took this first part to make Mal nervous. Time magic is not something Mal has ever heard of, which in her experience is never a good sign. "It sent Mahanon one year into the future. He told me upon his return that the breach will swallow the sky if we can't close it, with rifts opening up all across the world. Thedas will be invaded by demons.

"Almost everyone will die, the Inquisition included. Which also, according to Mahanon, entails you." 

Mal doesn't know what to say. Solas's impactful words renders her speechless. Thinking that the breach is probably enough to kill her is not the same as the certain knowledge. 

And, now she knows. 

There's no point in denying that she's curious to how the breach will kill her. It won't be to just demons, it has to be connected to the veil itself. This knowledge might bring her closer to knowing what's wrong with her soul, but… unless Mahanon can enlighten her curiosity with her asking about the future, it's a lot safer to never find out.

What Solas just told her shouldn't change her way of thinking when it comes to the Inquisition's work. She has always been motivated to do Mahanon justice and help him close the breach, yet it changes everything. Now, it's not just a choice to do something good for the sake of Thedas. Her actions are, for the second time in her life, a matter of her own survival.

"Do you really think that Mahanon can close the breach?" Mal asks, swallowing nervously. The irony that Mal is asking the same question she berated Varric for voicing earlier isn't lost on her. Yet, one can't expect rational behaviour from an immortal being learning of her own death. Something that has seemed impossible for almost as long as she's been alive.

A soft curve appears on Solas's lips. "Yes. I could go into the details of why he'll succeed, but I'm not sure you'd care to listen."

"Why wouldn't I? It's-" Mal starts, feeling incredulous at Solas's harsh words. However, the meaning of Solas's smile finally starts to have an impact on her mind. "It's elvhen magic isn't it." And of course it would be. The veil is involved after all. 

"I'm not impractical by nature, Solas. If elvhen magic will keep me and Thedas alive, then by all means call the very Gods back from beyond the veil." Mal feels slighted that Solas would believe her capable of irrational hatred. Her practicality is one of the few virtues she has and she's very proud of it.

"It won't come to that, I'm sure." And that's when Mal realize that Solas is teasing her. His sharp eyes and relaxed demeanour tells a tale of a man having fun at her expense. 

She would have felt embarrassed. Just like the times before as Solas has made her feel flustered. Yet, that's not the feeling coursing through her body. She really wish it was.

Remembering Effie's incessant teasing a year ago, Mal knows she has a type. Back then it was a merchant, filled to the brim with wares and knowledge no one asked for, making his way to the crossroads at the Hinterlands. His stop at the local smithy made a special impression, when he claimed beyond any doubt that he could improve the inferior technique employed by their blacksmith. The local craftsman had a temper equally prone to heat up as his own forge. 

Everybody hated the merchant. Everybody except Mal that is. His incisive nagging somehow grew on her, until she couldn't get enough of it. 

Is that what's happening here as well? Solas is well beyond the normal levels of getting on Mal's nerves, that has long since been established. That knowledge, together with the fact that everything from the elegance of his ten toes to the light layer of freckles painted on his face, converge together to make for an extremely gorgeous man. 

She's absolutely sure she didn't think of him as particularly beautiful when she first met him. Which means that it's his personality that must have done the feat of charming its way into her brain, changing her perspective. 

This is his fault, really. If he only hadn't smiled at her now, Mal would never have learned about her own small crush.

The realization of her feelings wouldn't be half as bad though, if she didn't carry the memories of her numerous mistakes that he's had the pleasure of witnessing. Oh well, it's not like he respects her anyway. Her feelings won't matter for anyone but herself. Though even if Mal's own rational tries to convince her brain of the fact that nothing will come of her innocent feelings, her heart still strains under the memories of her blunders. If Mythal herself were to ask Mal whether her heated face comes from her crush or embarrassing memories, Mal wouldn't be able to answer.

And while Mal is having her own private break down, Solas cross his arms. The smile is gone, though his eyes keeps their steel gaze on her. He doesn't seem to want to tease her any further, for which Mal is grateful. He's done enough. He's done more than enough.

"Right now, I'm more worried about you." The words leaves his mouth slowly. Like he's testing them out carefully. Mal, still battling her own inner turmoil, has some left over capacity to feel confused. 

Unlike Mahanon, she's not the one with a hand that has the power to close rifts, and is about to embark on a mission to close a behemoth. There's no reason for Solas to be more worried about her, a simple foot soldier, than their saviour.

Yet, those short words predicts catastrophe, Mal's sure of it. Solas is too smart to be spouting ramshit. In fact, his intelligence must be the main reason he charmed his way into her heart to begin with.

"The Inquisition is aware of discrepancies in your story. They're suspicious," Solas continues in an even tone, his offensive yet charming teeny tiny smile still painted on his lips. 

Mal stares wide eyed at him, not really grasping what he means. Her background story in the Hinterlands is solid. It's boring and mundane, and best of all entirely true. Unlike Solas, she shouldn't have an issue keeping her head down in terms of where she comes from.

Solas, having correctly interpreted Mal's panicked confusion, must be feeling nice enough to elaborate, "You have too much experience with real life fighting to have simply farmed for the last twenty years. Yet, they have several accounts proving your life at your farm. So they wonder, where did you get your experience?" 

Instead of feeling panic rising at the implications of what Solas just said, she snorts. Somewhere, Solas's great logic must have failed his brilliant mind, an unprecedented feet she's sure. 

"If anyone is lying about their past it's you. The stuff stuck in that head of yours is impossible to learn in today's Thedas, but you show off that knowledge every single day. Yet, it's _me_ that they're suspecting of lying? It makes no sense Solas."

He nods, yet the bobbing of his head is not an act of agreement. "Once again I must remind you that not everyone shares your point of view." Again, Mal is reminded of a scholar teaching his lesser the error of their ways. "Others don't know that the extent of my knowledge is impossible, simply because they're too ignorant of all elvhen to be suspicious of my contributions. You on the other hand, show them great skill in the way you fight. It's a proficiency one can't get without lifelong experience, which is a topic in which they're intimately familiar."

Mal steps back. The mossy stone under her feet softens the sound, making her deep heartbeat appear louder in her ears. He's right. Elgar'nan's nug infested throne, he's making sense. Mal believes him, though she really doesn't want to. The implication to her future is not one she wants to think about.

"Leliana wants to see me tomorrow." Mal whispers incredulous. Varric's vagueness last night makes so much more sense now, as he must have been in on the secret. "She's going to ask questions I can't answer," Mal continues feeling the world she's built for herself for weeks falling at her feet. 

What Mal needs to do is obvious, yet it's something she dreads. "You need to leave. Preferably before dawn," Solas says after the pause where Mal refused to open her mouth and utter those words. Unlike Mal he's not panicked. Simply sitting on the stone, relaxed and reclining. As if changing Mal's life is within his right. 

"You're an arse for this," Mal whispers, more to herself than Solas. Yet, Mal knows she'll fondly remember this image of a gorgeous man with a brilliant mind staring intently at _her_. It's a privilege, despite his extreme arrogance. 

An arrogance enhanced by the way his head tilt to the side while he answers, "Does it matter?" At the very least, Mal can say with great certainty that sympathy is not a necessary trait to tickle her interest.

"You don't strike me as a person who cares about anyone's opinions, much less mine." Solas says, though the bite that would normally accommodate words like those isn't there. His tone of voice has his comment sounding more like a question than an accusation.

And he's wrong. Though he wouldn't have been before the conclave. 

Mal has grown to like it in the Inquisition. It's not just Effie, though she's a big part of it. But Blackwall, Varric, Solas and Mahanon all have a will to do what is right. The notion is contagious. What was it that Effie said? A purpose makes one happy. Just as Effie says she is when she's allowed to cook food for righteous soldiers. 

Maybe Mal finally agrees, though she's never going to admit that to Effie out loud. Though there's one important difference between Mal and Effie, and that is that Mal's sure her fondness for the people within the Inquisition motivates her more than any vague purpose of world peace.

If there's one thing Mal knows, it's the value of friendship. Love, fondness, as well as laughter and joy is what creates a life worth living. Without these basic things a person becomes next to an empty shell, viable to fill with fear and hatred. Mal has found companionship here at the Inquisition, not just a purpose. She doesn't want to leave it behind.

Yet she has to. There's no other solution. "Alright. I'll leave," she says, the cold tone of her voice bringing pain even to her own heart. 

Solas however, doesn't look like he's pitying her in the slightest. Instead he nods, closing his eyes. "In a few days Mahanon will close the breach. By then the Inquisition will have fulfilled its purpose.

"I'll find you after. There's important matters we need to discuss."

\-----------------

With those words Mal wakes up. The first thought going into her mind is that Solas knows of her life's conundrum. At the very least, he's aware that something isn't quite right with Mal's soul. If possible, this news is worse than her sudden realization of her fondness for the elvhen worshipper, but now is no time to ponder. Her desire to panic must yield to her current task.

It's still dark inside the house she's sharing with an unknown amount of people. Every house in Haven is stuffed to the brim with as many sleeping bodies as they can store. It's necessary given Haven's body count, and very unfortunate to someone trying to sneak out.

Mal's in the middle. Limbs trap her body to the blankets separating her from the cold wooden floor. She tries to be quiet as she moves, and not disturb the others more than necessary. The steady sound of sleep induced breathing continues, which is a sign she's doing well. She can't see where she's placing her feet, but with some careful manoeuvring she gets out of the house. Remembering to thank small miracles for the door that moves outwards. 

Picking up her shield and sword, she knows that her weapon could use some time at the grindstone. It's a service that hasn't been afforded since the Fallow Mire, but there's no helping it now. Strapping the bare minimum of her stuff onto her back and hip, she set's her eyes on the steep cliffs hugging the village on one side. 

There's Templars situated around the poorly lit village. She can see the flames of torches reflecting light in their heavy armour, yet she also knows that it's not her specifically that they're looking out for. It's the other mages. The ones the Templars are taught to believe are threats, from the very moment they dedicate their lives to their order. 

Utilizing the stone she climbs out of her home, unseeing and quiet.

With the stone under her hands, a bitter feeling grasps its hold on her. When she first came here she couldn't wait to leave with Effie, yet so much has changed since then. Happily she'll be the first one to admit her mistake in prematurely judging the Inquisition and what it stands for. Making up her mind on the organization based on her previous assumptions and not on her own honest experiences.

Granted, she doesn't trust Cassandra and her likeminded people calling Mahanon their Herald, believing him to be their higher calling in life. She does however believe in people doing their best to do what is right. Simple common sense is driving their actions towards good. The Inquisition has this sense, in their workers and partly in their leadership. To Mal, she's ashamed to think that this should have been obvious to her from the start.

They've helped the refugees in the Hinterlands, and they've convinced nobility of their purpose. Both of these actions together makes their case for a rational organisation just trying to do good.

The forest is a short stride from Haven's walls. Pine trees will serve well in hiding her from vision, and their heat will make it easier to travel through the snow landscape. She'll go to the Bercilian forest. The place is riddled with elvhen ruins, but the mysticism will help her hide. However, more than being surrounded by memories of elves, she's not looking forward to the loneliness. 

But before she gets that far, a voice calls out to her. She recognize that tenor, having been terrified of that man on two occasions before. So much for her quick and quiet getaway, Mal thinks solemnly.

Turning around she sees a coat with a large fur collar. It's dwarfing the head Mal knows is there. The night sky is almost pitch black with slivers of green, yet she can still clearly see the angry steps hurriedly making their way towards her person.

It's Commander Cullen. He's a Templar, but more importantly he's someone that has the power to rouse the entire village at a moment's notice should he wish it. Creators curse her, she should have been more careful. Not spending her time pitying herself for her cruel fate, as that doesn't serve anyone any good. 

He's gaining on her. His long legs doing him justice in the deep snow at the corner of the village. Mal can't see anyone else nearby, making the two of them alone. That's good. She has a chance of outrunning him alone, but a whole village throwing spells and arrows at her person is more than she can handle. 

She starts to walk towards him. Her feet are drowning in the cold and wet snow, forcing her approach to slow down. Not that a slow approach is a bad thing. Letting out both her arms to the side, she hopes she appears meek and cooperative.

"What's your name?" the Commander asks, his tone wary. Mal realize that the lack of light must be causing him some issues. She should be well hidden amongst the pine trees. Probably he saw her moving shadow, causing him to investigate. 

By now, Mal's only a few more paces away from him. She has to be quick and assertive with what she has in mind.

"It's Mal. Don't you recognize me?" she tries for a light tone, and even smiles in the case there's enough light for him to see it. Probably there isn't. 

At her words, his hand goes down to the pommel of his sword. The action erase any doubt in Mal's mind of whether he's in on the suspicion of her past, as his assertive steps stops advancing in favour of a defensive stance. She's almost there though. There should be enough time.

She casts a spell in her right hand. It's a tiny one, and usually ineffective in the heat of the moment. Unfortunately, Cullen should be able to sense the shift in the Fade. Templars are really annoying like that, and this can be detrimental to Mal's success. But that's a chance she must take.

Stepping forwards, she reach with her left hand, a threatening feint towards his chest. His own arm comes up quickly to thwart her attack, just as Mal hoped it would.

He draws his sword. The sound of steel against his scabbard is quick and efficient, revealing his extensive experience. Though it's not his sword she's worried about.

Mal puts her left hand on top of his gloved one, and push down. Using her entire body, the movement force Cullen's shoulder down, until the hands almost reach the snow itself. The movement topples the tall man, making him loose his balance. She has to be quick before he regains the small advantage she worked for. 

Reaching forward with her hand containing her spell, she finds his throat. A small sliver of unarmed skin beneath his chin. Searching for her target, Mal push with her fingers against both sides of his windpipe, and her poisonous spell reach out towards his muscles. 

Her magic is inspired by the blood boiling spell and the Qunari Vitaar both. Accuracy is a problem with magic this volatile, though she suspects she only needs to wait for a few nerve wrecking moments before figuring out if her spell hit its intended target. 

Quickly stepping back, she release her hold on his arm. Immediately his large body stretch out to its full height, with his sword pointing straight at her heart.

His mouth opens wide. A clear indication of him wanting to yell out a general warning. Yet, nothing but wheezing comes out from between his lips. With it, a pang of elation course through Mal as she realize her spell worked.

Cullen's hand comes up to touch his throat, having realized that something is wrong. At least she didn't hurt his windpipe, but her mild poison have damaged his vocal cords. It should hurt him somewhat, though in the heat of the moment he might not notice the sting. Most importantly, it's nothing that won't heal on its own later.

She doesn't want to hurt him. Only prevent him from calling out for reinforcements. 

A puff of air forming the word _traitor_ release from his mouth. It's aggressive. A show of anger at what he must feel is Mal's betrayal. A ball of regret falls into Mal's stomach as she looks at his shadowed form, still holding one hand at his throat while the other points his sword at her chest. But there's nothing she can do. Her regrets won't fix this situation for either of them.

What Mal needs to focus on is what's going to happen next. Despite Cullen not being able to talk more than a whisper, Mal's successful spell doesn't prevent him from using his abilities as a Templar. With him recovering from his shock, this should be Mal's next challenge. Which…is bad. 

Mal turns around and starts to run. Fervently she hopes she can get out of range from his Templar abilities before they catch her. There's only a small chance of that happening, but the only other option is to knock him out cold. Which she doesn't want to do considering the tremendous harm to someone having lost their conscience, and the dangers of lying unmoving in cold snow for a prolonged period of time.

She doesn't want to kill him. Which to Mal seems like the only other option to running and hoping she'll get away. At least her chances are greater now that he can't call for help.

The dips in snow created by the pine trees is helping her along. Plus, the dark shadows should give her some ability to hide. She can hear Cullen's wheezing behind her, and his heavy steps following hers. But…where's the Templar nullification?

There's nothing. No smell, and no sensation of her mind being ripped away from Thedas and thrust into the Fade. She simply continues to run. Her hands coming down onto the snowy ground when she slips on the wet and uneven snow, push her to go further. 

It doesn't take long for Cullen's steps to sound more distant. Eventually they disappear altogether, and the only thing Mal can now hear is her own heavy breath. She made it out. Haven's pine forest is looming in the dark around her figure, yet the path ahead should be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For chapter 16, which I wrote connected to this, I spent a few hours looking up videos and reading wiki pages on iron age blacksmithing techniques. It was fun. I highly recommend it for you other nerds.


	18. Chapter 18

The Bercilian forest contain a whole lot of tall trees. It's mossy. With random rotten stumps and branches crowding together, and fungus having achieved the impressive feat of growing roughly everywhere. The lack of civilization creating its pronounced mark is simply astounding, allowing nature to consume the ground, and demand every space available with its heavy presence. 

Mal's time coming here has been spent in thought. Days alone with her own mind is not an exercise she enjoys, but this time it's necessary. Pushing the feeling of loss at her home aside, Mal is facing some serious troubles. After all, it's not often one has a crush on, and is afraid of the same person. 

Solas is going to find her after the breach is closed. At least, that's what he threatened to do, and Mal has no doubt he's able to fulfil that promise. He didn't ask where she planned to hide in the meantime. And that implies abilities that are too terrifying to contemplate, and too powerful to question. 

But apart from fright, there's also an opportunity for knowledge. If she's brave, maybe she can finally get some answers to her soul's unique predicament. Certainly, she's waited long enough. Longer than anybody else has ever had to wait, and much longer than anyone deserves. 

Though currently, being deep inside an ancient forest almost her own age, Mal is as tired of thinking as she is of walking. There's another elvhen stature toppled over by her feet. Two trees have found it in themselves to partly swallow the white stone, hiding the legs and a shield from Mal's view. 

She sits down, using the statue's wide shoulder as support. Probably, she's the first person to have found value from the statue since it first fell over. Her legs are too tired, and her head more so.

The breach started flickering this morning. A sign that Mahanon has already started his work at closing the damned thing. The ambivalence of Mal's joy at seeing the breach finally close stirs inside her mind, as she regrets not being present. But there's nothing she can do about that now, no matter her feelings.

But as Mal contemplates the uncertainty of her future, a boy pops up in front of her. A hat almost as big as him covers most of his eyes, yet Mal can see the cropped hair poking out from beneath the giant garment. Despite his rounded ears, Mal immediately realize that this boy isn't human. The body language is way too unpolished. Like a child's. Yet, his body control is immaculate. It's a contradiction that is impossible in anyone not possessed. 

There's no immediate attack. That fact is the only thing that still Mal's hand, as she instinctively reach for her sword.

Then the boy swallows. Mal sees an intense look of urgency in his expression, one that clash with his hesitant speech. "You love your friends. Their happiness is important to you. And right now, you're not as useless to them as you think."

He's reading her mind, the sly…no. A demon of desire would read her wants. And a demon of envy would gauge out her choices. But this boy reads the pain in her heart. 

Clenching her fist, Mal quickly realize that this boy, at the very least, isn't posing a physical threat. But that doesn't prevent Mal from steeling herself for whatever he wants, as she knows spirits can be incredibly annoying with their one track mind. Reading into her emotions like this is invasive, and farther past Mal's comfort zone than a Sten would feel being placed in the Divine's honour guard.

"Your friends still need you. You haven't abandoned them yet," he continues, making Mal frown.

The words could have been ones of comfort. A soft tone would have fit, and helped the kind words coax their way into Mal's ears, soothing her sadness. Yet, that's not the feeling she gets from the boy at all. The lofty voice with a hint of urgency colouring the would be warning, it's enough to make Mal worried.

Without getting up from her well-deserved seat, she gives the boy a hard stare, hoping it conveys her fast diminishing patience. "Speak clearly boy, or I won't understand your point."

"It's not 'boy', its Cole." The spirit swallows, seemingly not taken aback by Mal's abruptness at all. And Mal doesn't answer his ridiculous introduction of a name, opting instead to wait for him to clear his confusion and focus.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them together. It makes Mal hope he's spending some time working on actually getting his meaning across. 

Then, after a few moments spent in complete stillness, he suddenly opens his eyes, staring at Mal in anger. His mouth forms to a snare, reminding her of a scared rat. "'They dare to undo my work? I'll show them the power they're fighting.'" 

It's a play. He's behaving like an actor trying his best to convey a story of emotions to his audience, which in this case is only Mal. However, that doesn't change the fact that she doesn't understand anything, much less who's thoughts this boy is voicing. Unlike spirits, Mal doesn't carry the curse of reading people's minds.

"What work?" she sighs, fighting back the urge to grab the boy by his ears and shake some coherant speech into him. That tactic never works on anyone, much less spirits.

But then the boy turns around completely. With a raised head signalling his focus on the flickering breach, he lifts his arm to point at it. Slowly, Mal follows the sharp finger towards Haven and the blown up Temple. And finally, she gets it.

The person who created the breach is out for Haven. The thought enter her mind before her heart as the time to sink. This is bad. A person of madness who has power no one has seen since the veil was first constructed, has a goal of taking revenge on the Inquisition. 

Looking back at the boy, Mal sees that he's once again staring at her. The look of urgency making so much more sense in the way he's acting now, than what it did earlier. 

"Where?" The single word is, luckily, enough to make the spirit lift his hand quickly and point north. The dread in her mind probably doing more to convey her wants to the spirit than her voice.

Yet he's not finished talking. "They need to be warned. You can get to them in time." Mal knows what he wants now, having caught up to his train of thoughts. He wants her to go to Haven to help them either prepare or escape. 

But…Cole's breathy voice is now one that Mal can safely ignore. Already, she's gotten to her feet and grabbed her light gear. Thank the Creators she decided to make her new shield before she left Haven.

Mahanon has already done enough. Getting a cursed mark to close the rifts and breach, risking his life in the process is more than one can reasonably expect from anyone. He doesn't deserve to face more troubles than this, and neither does his friends.

She'll take on the madman herself, and save everyone in Haven the trouble. 

"No! You can't beat him. He's not here for you." Cole says, moving forwards to grab at Mal's arm. But he's not strong, even with his fingers digging into Mal's muscles. 

"Don't underestimate me. People have made that mistake before, and I've always come out on top," Mal says, having a wealth of memories to back up her claim. The scabbard of her sword is already securely fastened at her hip, for Mal's convenience in the future's inevitable fight. 

But before she can move on, going in the direction Cole pointed, she hears the boy's last words. Like a stubborn child receiving their first lesson of how unfair the world can get, he cries, "But you don't always win."

Well, perhaps she doesn't. But her victories are numerous enough to boost her necessary confidence. She can take on any madman if that's what the world requires. It's the least she can do for what this world has done for her.

But just in case…Haven deserves a warning if she fails. "Go to Haven and see my friends, yeah? They'll need to know." And just after Cole finishes voicing his agreement, Mal leaves the fallen statue behind. Her tired feet taking her towards her newest target.

\----------------

A flock of birds flies over Mal's head. They're loud, crying their ominous warning during the early dawn. The sun has just about created enough light for Mal to see the sky, yet the redness of the sunrise has yet to make its appearance.

She's tired. Having walked all night, she yearns for the light of day to give her a needed boost. Both for the sake of her fatigue, but also for the dejected feeling of realising what it is she has been tracking during the long hours of darkness.

The spirit prepared her for a single madman, but the army marching on the dirt roads of Ferelden is numerous. Mal has seen armies on a much larger scale than the one in front of her, yet there's nothing in her memory that can compare to the insanity ravaging every single person within the force. 

They're Templars. Though the armour they're wearing is the only thing contesting to that fact, as the tell-tale controlled order that's usually ingrained in Templars is completely gone. 

Is the madness she's facing contagious? That should be impossible. Yet, the red lyrium these Templars are consuming testifies to the contrary.

For some of them the lyrium protrudes from their bodies, in ways that Mal can only understand as excruciating. Yet, not a single Templar acts as if they feel any pain at all. Not even exhaustion hamper their movements from the many hours they've been on their feet without rest. Varric said the lyrium was poisonous when they saw it at the Temple, but this looks worse than any poison Mal has ever seen, even during her time at the hunting ground. 

But there's more important matters at hand than her many questions. There's no answers to be had here anyway, which means that her confusion serves no purpose, and is an unneeded distraction towards the grave situation at hand. With the speed the army's moving, any scouts warnings won't stand a chance of reaching their destination before it's too late. 

Mal really hopes Cole hurries to Haven, as this army is well beyond anything she can handle by herself. Cole was right, but there's nothing she can do about that now. Preferably she would have liked to save Haven from more trouble than what they're facing with the breach, but she won't be able to carry out her wish. She's no one-man-army against the horde she's facing. 

Though, she's not ready to admit she made a promise to bite the head off an ogre just yet. An army needs someone to give their commands, and that is especially true for one as mad as this one. Mal hopes that without a Commander calling out orders, the mad army will scatter, just like aimless darkspawn after killing the arch demon. At the very least, they'll need to slow down, giving Haven some more time to prepare. 

Which means that Mal has her shot of getting a partial victory, if she can only kill the single man currently yelling out his orders towards the front of his marching troop.

He's tall. And the fierce eyes keeping a constant watch reminds Mal of Commander Cullen. They both share the same desperation as well as determination towards their path forwards, a trait Mal fears as well as admire. But this guy yells a lot more than Mal's Commander, that's for sure. And while Cullen looks good in red, Templar leader Samson looks possessed.

Luckily, the roads of Ferelden is in poor condition. The luxury provided to the busy merchants at the coast is not given to the people here in the south. And with the forest posing a constant threat of consuming the roads all together, there's not a lot of space for the army to move. The marching people are drawn out, in long lines stretching further than Mal can see. Which in turns means that there's less people between Mal and her desired target.

The bushes and leaves also allows for Mal to get closer, a necessary fortune as she doesn't carry a bow for a distanced assassination attempt. Yet, there's no attack better than one correctly applying the element of surprise.

At this moment, the sun is rising. And as the white light penetrates the blue sky, the forest is forced to yield its protective veil of darkness that's been hiding Mal's presence. She's ready to act. 

Bull rushing is not meant as a pun on the mercenary captain Mal's particularly fond of, yet it would be exactly what he would do in this situation. Mal agrees, and grounds her feet in preparation to spring her attack. A small second is all she needs to cross the dirt road, and in that time she'll detach Samson's head from his poisoned body.

Then she sprints forwards. And before any Templars has had a chance to react to her sudden appearance amongst their ranks, she has already crossed the path of two of them. With her sword in her left hand held just like a dagger, she aims the sharp blade towards Samson's neck. Three quick steps later, and Mal's already reached her desired goal.

The blade deliberately sinks into soft flesh. A small pressure appears in Mal's hand, creating the tiniest resistance in her grip around the swords handle. Following the blade's movements with her eyes, Mal's mesmerised as she watch the sword easily slip through white skin, like it's digging for the spine it will find at the core. 

Then a large force hits Mal at the back of her right shoulder. Her speed, together with the hit makes her body pivot forwards in an uncontrollable arc. The movement cause her to turn around, making her face her attacker. 

It's a Templar. With veins threatening to protrude from all over his face, and a feral snarl to his expression. His wide eyes stares at Mal. The intense hate in his expression reminding her of how she herself felt towards her own hunting priests those many lifetimes ago.

Her sword follows her arm uncontrollably, and is wrenched away from the man it is meant to kill. But it doesn't matter. Mal has lost her footing, but her eyes search out the wounded neck, and sees the blood already starting to seep out from the fatal wound. 

Samson doesn't have much time left in this world. A few minutes at the most, but probably even less than that.

Her back lands on the uneven dirt and gravel. The impact is hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs, though no pain registers in her overly active mind. The Templar that knocked her over doesn't even bother to draw a sword, but goes for the quicker attack of a well-aimed kick. 

But Mal isn't scared. Even lying on her back, with a frenzied Templar standing in a dominating position above her body, she relish in the blood that is seeping out of Samson at this very moment. Mal's job is done.

All that she has left to do now is to escape, which is something that is well within her means. 

Tightening her core muscles, Mal lifts her leg up for a powerful kick at the assaulting Templar. The sudden counterattack comes as a surprise, and force the man out of his position before he's able to land his blow, exactly like Mal had hoped it would. Using her leg still hanging in the air, she throws herself into a backwards roll, landing on her feet. 

The pressure on her right shoulder during the movement sends a panicked signal of pain through her arm, but it's far from enough to stop her in her escape. In fact, there's very little that can hinder her now.

The road is small. Already, Mal is at the very edge, with tall trees standing proud behind her back. Turning around swiftly, she's able to get away before any more Templars have it in their minds to land another successful blow at their attacker. 

Running through forest is familiar to Mal. The traitorous moss covered ground doesn't hinder her rapid steps. The messily placed trunks and tiny hills acts like the props for a game, making it necessary for Mal to apply her ability to navigate her feet safely. And by the Creators is she good at this game of life. No Templar, red lyrium or not, is able to catch her within her element.

\-------------------

If only her right arm wouldn't hurt as much, her escape would have been perfect. But looking down on her limb sending its strong signals of pain into Mal's brain, it doesn't require a lot of brain power to understand that her arm is in serious trouble. With painful pulses, Mal can see red glowing hues reaching out through her skin. It's unnerving. 

But as life would have it, no poison Mal has previously been exposed to has been able to kill her off. There's no way this one should be able to succeed. 

But truthfully, she should have been more careful before sprinting towards Samson. If she had been able to see the Templar that pushed her over before she started her attack, there's a good chance she would have been able to avoid the blow causing her arm its troubles now. 

Oh well. A dead Templar Commander is well worth the pain. Especially now that Mal can confidently say that she's done everything she can for the sake of Haven and its people. It wasn't enough to force the assaulting army to scatter, but at the very least she would have bought Cole more time to warn her people.

Gazing up at the sky with eyes threatening to close against her will, Mal can't see the breach anymore. Only a sliver of a scar with a faint green glow is left behind to testify what was once Thedas biggest threat. The relief she feels of Mahanon's success is simply immense. Solas was right. The Dalish Herald had the ability to save them all.

She'll leave for Antiva. The heat will be a welcomed change from Ferelden, despite the bore of the mystical swamps surrounding its cities, with enough undiscovered Temples and magical caves to fill the dreams of every arcane historian Thedas has to offer.

These thoughts, as well as ideas of how to sneak onto a ship crossing the Waking Sea, runs through Mal's mind in the early morning. Taking some time to rests her tired body, she thinks of the new life ahead of her. The threat of Solas be damned, she'll find her new place in this world. The notion of her new journey has become like her own personal grieving ritual by now, as it's something she has to do every time she loses her home.

But her thoughts inevitably starts to wonder on how Mahanon is doing. He's gone through the largest magical feat of his lifetime, and she can't help but feel worried. 

Yet, she doesn't have much time to contemplate her favourite dalish saviour, before she sees a brown familiar hat poking through the forest green. It's Cole. With his large searching eyes and slightly open mouth, he moves like a dream over the uneven ground. 

He shouldn't be here. If Cole has come to talk to Mal yet again, then Haven won't get their life saving warning.

"Your friends aren't in Antiva," Cole says in a perfectly innocent voice. Mal's feeling her own panic at the thought that the Templar horde will reach an unsuspecting Haven soon, all because of this spirit. Who ever said that demons are the only creatures of the Fade ever to do harm?

"What in the void are you doing boy, you're supposed to be at Haven right now," Mal seethes. Already, her own feet have started to move. Carrying Mal in hurried steps towards the town containing her precious people. 

Yet, she knows she won't make it in time. There's no chance of her reaching them in time.

Cole simply follows Mal. A grave nod is the only thing contesting to him using his overly large ears to listen to her words. Well, she won't be fooled a second time to believe in his compassion. "But if I had gone, then you wouldn't have come with me. Mahanon wouldn't feel betrayed as strongly as he does, if he didn't care. You should go back. It's better if you go back."

By now, Mal's breath is too focused on providing Mal's lungs with air to give the wilful spirit an answer. At the very least he will get his wish. But the cost of his decision is terrifying. 

Pushing all thoughts aside, Mal focus on reaching Haven in time, though she knows it is almost an impossible task. At the very least, she has to _try_.


End file.
